


The Son

by ceterisparibus



Series: Human Disasters [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Avocados at Law, Bromance, Case Fic, Catholicism, Character Study, Concussions, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Good Parent Gil Arroyo, Gun Violence, Human Disaster Malcolm Bright, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Hurt/Comfort, Legal Drama, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Philosophy, Poison, Secret Identity, Stabbing, Whump, all the fun stuff, how did I forget to tag for angst, not strictly non-consensual but kinda, that's it that's the fic, their best attempt at it anyway, these boys make bad decisions, they're both human disasters lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 112,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23365366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceterisparibus/pseuds/ceterisparibus
Summary: When Matt Murdock's client is falsely accused of murder, he thinks he's on his own to prove her innocence. Turns out he might have an unexpected ally in the form of the NYPD's profiler. If they can ever figure out how to work together, they might be able to help not only the client but also each other.Or as one commenter put it, the one where everyone who sees them together goes "oh no there's two of them."
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Jessica Whitly, Matt Murdock & Malcolm Bright
Series: Human Disasters [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2142267
Comments: 841
Kudos: 606





	1. Please Believe Me

**Author's Note:**

> I got sucked right into the Prodigal Son fandom courtesy of SoulfireInc (have you read her stuff? Go read it right now!) and I can't crawl back out.
> 
> Takes place in that lovely, nebulous time before the very end of Prodigal Son's season finale, but this fic includes spoilers from the entire series. Also includes spoilers for Daredevil through Season 3.

Matt

Matt Murdock curled his hands into fists under the table. It aggravated his split knuckles, but he didn’t care. Better to keep the tension there, under the table where no one could see. The prosecuting attorney across from him folded her arms across her chest, the smooth fabric of her jacket whispering. It was just as overpriced as her cloying perfume, which had settled on the back of Matt’s tongue.

This whole room was a sensory nightmare. He hated doing plea negotiations at the jail. But the prosecutor, Ms. Allen, was a busy woman, and this was her preferred location. Contrary to popular opinion, Matt _did_ know how to pick his battles. The location of the negotiations wasn’t a hill he wanted to die on.

His client’s charge, on the other hand, was. First degree murder. The victim? Her father. The method? Strangulation, followed by multiple stab wounds—post-mortem. She was completely innocent, but the DA’s office was cracking down hard and right now the only people who could make a difference for her were Nelson and Murdock.

“Give me a break,” Foggy was saying, with an eye roll Matt could practically hear. His partner wasn’t much for subtlety or professionalism when it came to plea negotiations, not now that he knew Matt could hear a lie in someone’s heartbeat. Which meant Foggy was just as convinced as Matt that twenty-year-old Angela Worthington didn’t kill her father. “The only evidence you have that she was even in the _room_ is the fact that she told you.”

“You’d like to think so,” Allen said coldly, narrowing steel-blue eyes. “You haven’t seen what’s in her journal, have you?” Her body swiveled towards Matt. “Haven’t had your partner read it out loud for you yet, hmm?”

Matt blinked.

“Wow,” Foggy said, voice soft but venomous. “We’re going there?”

Waspish comments about Matt’s blindness weren’t a hill Matt wanted to die on either, especially because she was right. Matt had no idea what was in their client’s journal, not after Allen took advantage of New York’s recent change to discovery laws and dumped slightly under three hundred files at the doorstep of Nelson and Murdock. Paper files, of course, because electronic files would be too easy for Matt to listen to via his screen reader.

Foggy had wanted to move for sanctions. Matt had quietly pointed out that a discovery battle would just piss off the judge.

Maybe, for once in his life, he’d chosen the wrong battle to avoid.

“Well,” Allen said, tilting her head in fake sympathy, like she was looking at two wounded puppies, “I guess you’ll just have to run off to your office and skim through it real quick. I’m sure you’ll be back before the deadline for negotiation. Except…ooh, it’s rush hour, isn’t it? So…” She pursed her lips, by the sound of her heavy lipstick. “Maybe not.”

Matt wanted to punch something. They’d come in here with a _plan_. Once they knew that young Angela was innocent, they’d examined her backwards and forwards until they determined precisely what happened from her point of view: she’d been out with friends at a late-night volleyball game on campus and gotten home around just after midnight— _after_ the time of death according to the ME. And her friends were ready to come to her defense. College kids weren’t necessarily the most credible witnesses, but Matt was confident that if he and Foggy put enough of them on the stand, a jury would eventually believe them.

But the testimony of a bunch of college kids might not be enough to counter whatever Angela wrote in her journal. She didn’t have the best relationship with her dad, after all—not after a fight they’d had that ended with her father ceasing his _exceedingly_ generous donation to her college fund. A donation that, apparently, was about to end anyway: turned out that Gregory Worthington had an illegal gambling problem that finally got the better of him. But Angela hadn’t known that at the time; all she’d known was that her father was cutting her off. Who knew what she might’ve written?

And if they went to court, the journal would definitely be admitted. As the defendant, Angela’s statements were automatically admissible to the prosecution. Even journal entries.

Foggy sat up straighter in his chair. He wasn’t forming fists under the table, but he _was_ tense with fury. “You can’t do murder one. No evidence of premeditation.”

“Or is there?” Allen asked, faux-sweetly.

“You don’t seriously think a twenty-year-old college junior went off to play volleyball with a bunch of her friends, knowing the whole time that she was gonna go home and _strangle_ her _father_ to _death!_ ”

“Oh, college students can be quite the little psychopaths.”

“But not this one,” Matt said flatly. “She didn’t do it.”

Standing up, Allen planted a hand on her hip. “Well, Mr. Murdock and Mr. Nelson, I guess you’ll have to prove that, won’t you?”

Matt opened his mouth to snap back about where the burden of proof actually belonged, but he swallowed it when he heard footsteps racing in the hallway outside. They were nice shoes, from the sound of it. Not quite as overpriced as Allen’s outfit, but not far behind. The man attached to the footsteps was a flurry of excitement, heart beating like crazy and smelling faintly of sweat like he’d sprinted through the whole jail—maybe farther.

Matt refocused on the room. “A few journal entries won’t prove anything by beyond a reasonable doubt except that Miss Worthington likes to write,” he said. “It’s quite the leap from the frustrated ramblings of a young girl to the kind of murder we’re talking about here.” He scoffed loudly. “You really think any jury will believe that Angela strangled her father to death, then went and found a knife just so she could keep on stabbing the corpse?”

“Murder two, then?” Allen offered, her lips forming a smile around the word.

Second-degree murder would still ruin Angela’s life. Even _manslaughter_ would ruin her life, and Matt knew it’d take a miracle to get Allen down to that.

Matt was suddenly grateful they were meeting in the jail. They’d have to speak to Angela before reaching a deal, and maybe, just maybe, they’d have enough time to get her to tell them whatever the worst thing was in the journal…and flag Allen down again…and argue Allen into an agreement…all before the deadline….

Yeah, not likely.

He opened his mouth to say something he was probably gonna regret, but before he could speak the door slammed open and the owner of the expensive shoes burst in.

“She didn’t do it!” he yelled.

Allen bristled like an angry cat. “Excuse me?”

An older man else came stumbling into the room next, flushed with embarrassment and annoyance; the smell and _click_ of metal told Matt he was carrying. “Bright, you can’t just—”

“ _She didn’t do it._ ” The younger man slammed a piece of paper onto the table. “But I know who did.”

~

Malcolm

He panted, fighting to catch his breath. The prosecutor’s ice-blue eyes dropped to the picture, and her lips parted slightly. Her power stance—chin up, shoulders back, one hand perched on her hip with her elbow taking up plenty of space in the room—wilted ever so slightly.

Gulping for oxygen, Malcolm straightened up, giving the room in general his best confident nod. “See?” He gestured at the paper again, aiming to look casual and careless. Whoops, his hand was still kind of shaky after…all this.

 _All this_ being the usual night terrors and family stressors, now coupled with a case where a rich dad was killed—by his own son.

Not by his daughter, though, and that was the important part right now.

“Foggy,” one of the lawyers said tersely, red glasses glinting in the harsh light. “What’re we looking at?”

Oh, wait—the guy was blind.

“Sorry,” Gil was saying, his hand settling at its well-worn spot on the back of Malcolm’s neck. “We don’t mean to interrupt, we were just on our way to return this to _the detectives assigned to the case_.”

Yeah, and that wouldn’t be nearly in time for the poor girl. Dani said the deadline for plea negotiations was this evening, and _maybe_ the prosecutor would retract the charges once she’d realized she’d made a mistake, but…Malcolm swept his eyes over her again, noting the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her mouth was pinched together, and the faint flush in her cheeks. She was furious at being interrupted, at having her authority challenged.

“Foggy,” the blind lawyer said again.

His partner reached for the paper (and the prosecutor’s fingers twitched like she wanted to snatch it away before he could get it). The blond lawyer picked it up and cleared his throat. “It’s, uh…it’s kinda blurry, but it looks like a still from a security tape. Some guy’s sneaking out of a window?”

Malcolm leaned forward. “And _that’s_ your killer.”

The prosecutor clenched her jaw. “Just who is that supposed to be?”

“Greg Worthington’s son,” Malcolm answered immediately. “Jared.”

Her lips tightened. “And how do you know?”

Malcolm was delighted to explain. “He fits the profile. This murder was done by someone who knew the victim—the victim was strangled from the front, but there’re no defensive _or_ offensive wounds on the body. Other than the strangulation and the stabbing, obviously,” he added good-naturedly. “The _point_ is, he didn’t put up a fight. And he could’ve, he was a healthy male in good shape. But the murderer _hated_ Mr. Worthington. This murder was deeply personal, so deeply personal that the murderer picked up a knife even after he’d done the deed, just for the satisfaction of stabbing the old man again and again.”

The blond lawyer looked faintly disturbed.

His partner cocked his head towards Malcolm, eyeline just a little off. “And what makes you think the son had motive?”

“Outcast,” Malcolm answered promptly. “Rejected by his criminal father, again and again. The sister was always the favorite. It all came to a head with the last fight, when the father’s affections finally shifted away from the sister—but _not_ onto the son.”

“That’s cute,” the prosecutor cut in, “but your little theory doesn’t change the facts, Mr.…?”

Malcolm quickly remembered to smile. He stuck his hand out. “Malcolm Bright. Profiler. Good to meet you.”

She didn’t shake his hand.

Shrugging, Malcolm turned and offered his hand to the nearest lawyer, the blind one. “Good to meet you,” he tried again.

The lawyer stood up, belatedly offering his own hand a good six inches away from Malcolm’s. Other than that, though…from the way he positioned himself in the room, Malcolm would’ve sworn the guy could see. “Likewise,” he said, voice crisp and professional. “I’m Matt Murdock, of Nelson and Murdock.”

“If your partner needs to leave the room to go make friendship bracelets,” the prosecutor said scathingly, aiming the remark at Murdock’s partner. Nelson.

Nelson was grinning, totally unphased. “I think it’s only polite for my partner to shake the hand of the man who just saved our case.”

“Saved your case?” The prosecutor arched a perfectly-plucked eyebrow. “One grainy photo and sheer speculation? I don’t find that convincing, and clearly neither does the police,” she added, shooting a glance at Gil over Malcolm’s shoulder. “Good luck convincing a jury of twelve. My offer stays the same.”

Nelson’s mouth fell open. “Still on second-degree? Seriously? You’re gonna let the real murderer walk around free just so _you_ don’t look bad?”

The prosecutor was unmoved.

A muscle twitched in Murdock’s jaw as he slowly turned to face the prosecutor. Like a shark circling prey, kind of. Weird mental picture for a blind lawyer, sure, but something about the way Murdock squared his shoulders was like a siren in Malcolm’s mind.

And then one of Murdock’s hands—the one shielded by his body from the prosecutor—clenched into a fist. Malcolm frowned, noting the bloody bruising on his knuckles. Particularly the two foremost knuckles. Like he’d been punching. Like he’d been _trained_ to punch.

The intrigue was enormous. There was _definitely_ more to this guy.

“I’ll give you some time to discuss with your client,” the prosecutor said smoothly, slipping the photo into her file and holding it tightly.

“Don’t worry, we’ve got extra copies,” Malcolm blurted out. He met her withering glower with another smile.

She stormed out of the room, heels clicking sharply against the floor. Tipping his head back, Nelson groaned. Murdock didn’t lose any of the tension in his body.

“Nice job,” Gil hissed in Malcolm’s ear, in a voice that warned that they’d _definitely_ be talking about this later. “Now let’s leave these lawyers to do theirs.”

“Wait.” Murdock’s eyebrows drew together behind his glasses as he pivoted back towards Malcolm, chin high. “Mr. Bright, how did you acquire that photo?”

“Security footage,” Malcolm answered promptly. “Like I told you. Cops recovered it from the scene. You can speak to Dani Powell, she last had custody of the—” He broke off as Gil’s fingers squeezed vicelike into his neck. “Anyway.”

“They _definitely_ didn’t give us that with the rest of the files,” Nelson fumed under his breath.

Murdock tilted his head back towards his partner, ignoring the comment to keep his focus on the identity of the killer. “And the figure in the window, it doesn’t look like our client?”

“I dunno,” Nelson said heavily. “It’s pretty blurry.”

Wait, were they losing faith in their client? “Why would the girl with a spare key to her father’s place leave through a window?” Malcolm demanded. “And why would she leave through a window where she knows there’s a security camera?”

An estranged son, on the other hand….

“Bright,” Gil said.

“ _Does_ she know about the cameras?” Nelson asked tentatively.

“Foggy,” Murdock muttered. “She’s innocent.”

“ _I_ know that,” Nelson said quickly. “Doesn’t mean a jury’ll believe it.”

Murdock worked his jaw and wet his lips and didn’t respond.

“Bright,” Gil said again. “Let’s _go_.”

Better not to push his luck. Malcolm raised his hands in surrender. “Right, sorry. As you were, gentlemen.” He backed into Gil, then backed straight out the door. The door shut between them and the lawyers. Malcolm took a deep breath.

In the hallway, Gil’s face was a painting of exasperation. “Satisfied?”

Malcolm shook his head. “Not yet.” And neither, he guessed, was Murdock.

“Bright, I’m telling you.” Gil’s voice sharpened. “You’ve done enough, now stay away from this case before you piss off the entire DA’s office.”

He was using his dad voice. Malcolm occasionally even listened to it.

Not this time, though.

And Murdock wasn’t gonna let it go, that much was clear. But he wouldn’t be able to do much without evidence.

Pulling out his phone, Malcolm started googling the law firm of Nelson and Murdock. Looked like they’d gotten a lot of attention for their part in locking up Wilson Fisk—and for their spectacular failure on the Punisher case. (Malcolm would _love_ to sit in a room with the Punisher sometime. He had a few theories about a profile for him, but he wanted to test them. Refine them.) Maybe it was a lie that all publicity was good publicity, or maybe the good and the bad just cancelled each other out, because it didn’t look like Nelson and Murdock was all that successful as a firm.

Would they even have the resources to get the evidence they needed? If not, Murdock could grit his teeth against the bogus charges all he wanted, but it wouldn’t help his client. And it wouldn’t stop the real killer.

“Kid.” Gil’s brown eyes softened a little behind all his frustration. “Get some sleep. Dani’s on the case. We don’t need you for this one.”

It shouldn’t sting. It did, though. It always did.

Malcolm spread his hands. “’Course, Gil. I’ll just go handcuff myself to my bed, shall I?”

The crease between Gil’s eyebrows deepened. He didn’t have a reply to that. He never did.

“Sounds like a plan.” Malcolm clapped Gil on the shoulder, turned on his heel, and set off at a brisk pace for the nearest exit. He sent Dani a text as he went: _Tell me as soon as you get any news._

 _About?_ she texted back.

Fair. He probably pestered her about more things than he should. He texted back: _About the son._


	2. Liars

Matt

Malcolm’s heartbeat hadn’t wavered. He was telling the truth. At least, what he thought was the truth. And it didn’t seem so far-fetched, what he said about Greg Worthington’s son. Rejection…it did things to people. Changed them. Made them walk right over lines they’d drawn themselves.

“Okay _,_ ” Foggy announced, “that whole conversation was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen that stupid horned costume.”

Matt didn’t take the bait, concentrating instead on focusing past the distracting clamor of the jail to hone in on the conversation currently happening out in the hallway. Malcolm was being lectured by the man who’d accompanied him.

“Not like it’ll make a difference, though,” Foggy went on gloomily. “You saw Allen. She won’t cave on this no matter what evidence turns up.”

Matt didn’t doubt it. He spoke through gritted teeth: “We’re not taking a deal, Foggy.”

“You wanna go to trial on this? Seriously? Based on one grainy photograph you can’t even see?” Foggy dragged his hands over his face. “Angela doesn’t want a trial, Matt, you know that.”

“She doesn’t want second-degree murder on her record, either,” Matt retorted. “At trial, at least she’d have a shot.”

“Matt,” Foggy began, but Matt wasn’t listening. Not to him, anyway. He strained his ears, pushing his senses to follow Malcolm as the profiler wandered further down the hall.

“C’mon, Gil,” Malcolm was saying. “What if the killer doesn’t stop with the father?”

“What if?” Gil echoed. “Bit unusual, hearing a _what if_ from you.”

“What if the mother’s the next target?” Malcolm insisted. “Or the sister?”

Angela. Angela could be a target.

“That fit your profile?” Gil muttered.

Malcolm hesitated. “Maybe.”

Matt narrowed his eyes behind his glasses. He didn’t need a so-called profile to know there was a possibility that the rest of the family was still in danger. Besides, now that the killer had gotten a taste of blood, what if he broadened his range? Realized how good it felt, and kept going regardless of the target?

Not—not that killing felt good. Or if it did, Matt wouldn’t know.

“Matt!” Foggy was right in front of him, snapping his fingers and probably just shy of shaking him to get his attention.

Matt shook his head. “What, sorry?”

“We’ve gotta talk to Angela before the deadline. Tell her about the picture, let her make her decision with all the facts we’ve got.”

“You do that,” Matt said.

“What, _me?_ ” Foggy spluttered.

“Yeah. I’ve gotta go.”

“Wait, what?”

Matt started to brush past his best friend, then paused with a hand on Foggy’s arm. “Don’t…don’t let her take a deal, all right?”

“You know I can’t do that,” Foggy said quietly.

It was true that the final call was their client’s, not theirs. But Foggy was the most persuasive person Matt knew—he got people to not just believe him, but believe _in_ him and in whatever he was saying. How else could he convince a soulless attorney like Marci Stahl to risk her job for Foggy’s crusade? Matt tilted his head up at Foggy with an earnest expression he knew from experience to be its own form of persuasive. “Tell her we’re gonna find the real culprit. And tell her…make sure she knows I still believe her.”

Foggy’s heartrate sped up. “Tell me _you’re_ not gonna find the real culprit.”

Matt didn’t answer. They both knew it’d be a lie if he did.

“Matt!” Foggy dropped his voice to a fierce whisper. “You can’t get involved in this as Daredevil, you could compromise the whole—”

“Only if someone figures out I’m Daredevil,” Matt whispered back. “I’ve…I’ve done this before, Foggy.”

That really made Foggy’s heartrate go crazy. The fact that Foggy and Matt were managing to rebuild their firm didn’t actually mean they were doing so well moving past all the secrets and lies between them. Sometimes Foggy forgot that he still didn’t know the extent of what Matt did as Daredevil, didn’t know how familiar Matt was with crossing lines that Foggy would never dream of crossing.

(Matt didn’t forget; he was excruciatingly aware of the difference between the imbalanced scales of what Foggy knew and what Foggy didn’t. And he was doing his utmost to keep that balance unchanging.)

So yeah, Foggy didn’t know that Matt really didn’t have a problem with criminally interfering with their own cases—as long as it helped people.

Besides. It was a moot point because no one was going to connect the dots between a violent vigilante and a blind lawyer.

They’d have to be insane.

~

Malcolm

In a shocking turn of events, Malcolm couldn’t sleep.

In fairness to him, he _had_ tried. There really wasn’t much he could do until Dani got back to him with more info, so he strapped himself in bed and…and nope, didn’t work.

Images chased themselves through his head. A son and a father. Hands wrapped around a neck (from the front—the killer wanted the victim to recognize him). A knife on a corpse (anger took over reason and logic disappeared to the back of the mind). A whole history building up to one sweet, satisfying moment.

Sweet for the killer, anyway. Sweet for Jared. So sweet he couldn’t stop himself. Not even after it was over.

Malcolm was gagging on sickening sweetness. Finally, he gave up. Getting out of bed and unlatching his restraints, he stumbled into the kitchen and took his pills. He was a few hours too early, but who cared? Then he pulled out one of his cards.

“The mistakes of my past do not define me,” he read aloud, and frowned.

What else _was_ there?

Grabbing his phone, he composed a text for Dani: _Good morning sunshine! Not my parakeet, though, I’m talking about you._

He stopped and stared at the message. Ugh.

He deleted it and tried again: _Good morning friend!_

Ugh, no.

_Good morning partner!_

No.

Ugh.

_Good morning Dani. Do you have anything for me?_

Whatever, good enough. He sent the text and debated breakfast. Nothing sounded good. He opted to work out instead. One unhealthy life choice, one healthy life choice. Balance.

After his workout and shower, he wandered back into the kitchen with a towel around his waist and tapped hopefully at his phone. The screen lit up with a text from Dani:

_Do you ever sleep? And yeah, got an address for you._

According to Google Maps, it wasn’t even far. He thanked her and reminded himself to stock up on more lemon-lime candies.

 _BTW,_ she added, _the DA sent out a weird memo this morning. Vague stuff, but it’s basically telling us not to clutter closed cases with new evidence. So whatever you want with Jared Worthington, you might be on your own._

Malcolm felt a pang of disappointment. She was his favorite part of working a case (besides solving the case). Don’t tell JT. _Can you help anyway?_

 _Duh,_ she texted back. _But discretely._

Alas. This was gonna be way less fun. But he could probably figure out a way to get her more involved; it just might take a little creativity.

He thanked her again, then put on clothes—clothes were a good idea when you were hunting down a murderer—and left his apartment, taking the stairs two at a time.

He was halfway to the address when he suddenly stopped dead. This wasn’t just about catching a murderer; this was also about clearing a girl’s name. Maybe, just maybe, his usual approach would screw something up for her defense. He stood still, absently counting how many other pedestrians slammed into him on the sidewalk, and thought about it.

Yeah, okay. He had time for a quick detour.

~

The office of Nelson and Murdock was small and unobtrusive, tucked away in the corner of a slightly dilapidated building with no advertising at all except an adorable little sign on the door. Brand new from the look of it. Malcolm stepped in to find a fairly spacious room with plenty of cheap chairs. An older woman with a puff of white hair was seated in one of them, holding a magazine. She lit up when she saw him. “Fredrick!”

Malcolm raised a hand to his chest. “Me?”

She beamed. “Now, how’s the family?”

“Ah…sorry, I think you have me confused with someone else.”

She slouched back in her chair like he’d personally let her down by not being Fredrick. “You’re the spitting image of my Freddie.”

“What a shame for us both,” Malcolm said before he could think better of it, earning himself a scandalized look. “Sorry,” he offered, but it was clearly too late. She shook her magazine reproachfully at him, turned the page, and started studying whatever was on it with unnecessary intensity.

Yikes. Malcolm quickly scanned the rest of the room. The place was small and cheap, but clean and uncluttered—except for the array of pastries in the kitchen. There were three offices, and a woman was emerging from one of them. Blonde hair and startlingly blue eyes which locked onto him immediately.

He hurried to greet her. “Hi! Miss Page, isn’t it?”

She drew back at his use of her name. “And you are?”

“Malcolm Bright, profiler.” He left it at that; best not to go around advertising his affiliation with the NYPD while in the office of defense attorneys, probably.

She immediately looked skeptical. A little _too_ skeptical, though. Like there was something underneath she wanted to hide. Well, there was only one emotion people wanted to hide when they met a profiler: fear. Fear of being read.

What was Miss Page hiding?

No matter, that wasn’t why he was here. “I’m looking for Matt Murdock,” he said, straining his neck to look into the other two offices. “Is he…?”

“Right behind you,” a steady voice said.

Malcolm whirled around, and there the lawyer was, standing in the doorway and holding his cane lightly in one hand with a banged-up black messenger bag over his other shoulder. “Hey, hi! I was just looking for you.”

“I gathered that, somehow.” Murdock’s face was impassive. “My office is straight ahead, if you want.” He flashed a smile at the magazine woman. “My partner will be with you in just a minute, Mrs. Eliason. He’s finishing our morning doughnut run.”

Malcom stepped back to let Murdock lead the way, but Murdock just stood there. Right—blind. Clearing his throat, Malcolm crossed the room to the office Murdock had indicated. It felt weird, going into the office first with Murdock trialing behind, but it gave Malcolm a better change to observe the way Murdock’s fingers ghosted over the doorframe and trailed along the top of a chair to guide himself to his own desk. Propping his cane in the corner, he turned around with his hands on his hips and his eyebrows raised above his red glasses. (Why red?) “What do you want?”

Malcolm tilted his head innocently. “What makes you think I want anything?”

The corner of Murdock’s mouth lifted by the tiniest amount. He didn’t give an answer.

Well, Malcolm was too excited about the case to play hard to get. “ _Fine_ , you win. I wanted to offer my personal services.”

Murdock’s head tipped to the side. “As a consultant?”

“As a profiler. Or consider me an investigator, even.”

“Investigator.”

“Of people,” Malcolm reiterated.

“So, just a profiler.”

Malcolm held up a finger. “ _Yes_ , fair, but I’m also willing to hunt through garbage and jump fences if I have to.”

Murdock’s lips were definitely twitching now. “As a defense attorney, I really have to recommend that you never admit to either of those behaviors again, but especially not fence-jumping.”

Malcolm took a step closer. “C’mon, I know everything that happened back at the jail didn’t sit right with you. You know your client’s innocent. Or…” He faltered. “Did she take a deal?”

Murdock hesitated. Malcolm could practically see the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. (Broad shoulders, even though his cheap suit seemed chosen specifically to make him appear slim. Interesting.) “No,” he said at last. “She didn’t.”

Malcolm punched the air. “Perfect! So we have time to bring in the real killer!”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t be trying to stop this guy anyway?”

“No, but with your client’s case on the line, now I know _you’re_ gonna help me.”

At that, Murdock seemed to…stare at him, kind of. Except obviously not. Then he broke into a short, harsh laugh. “And what help am I supposed to be, Mr. Bright?” He gestured at his glasses. “Investigating isn’t exactly my strength.”

That—that didn’t fit at all. First, because there were definitely ways Murdock could investigate despite his disability, and a guy with a fancy law degree—Colombia, summa cum laude according to the degree hanging on his wall—would have to know that. Second, because the way Murdock handled himself during that meeting told Malcolm that Murdock was a proud guy, who probably wouldn’t be self-deprecating unless it was obviously a joke. And, finally, because _everything_ Malcolm had observed so far belied that this wasn’t just a job for Murdock. This was…personal, somehow.

“What?” Murdock said suddenly, defensively.

Oh, right. Probably rude to stand there in silence like that. Malcolm cleared his throat. “Sorry, just thinking. The thing is, I’ve got the son’s address. I was gonna go look around, but then I thought to myself: what if there’s some fancy legal something that I’ll accidentally ruin if I show up on my own? So then I thought—”

“What’s the address?” Murdock cut in.

Withdrawing his phone, Malcolm read it out, watching Murdock’s face carefully. He didn’t seem to recognize the number, but his eyebrows raised slightly at the street name.

“That’s not a very nice part of town,” he noted.

“You ever go there?”

Murdock hesitated. Sheesh—they were basically making small talk, albeit small talk connected to a murder, and this guy acted like all his secrets were matters of national security. Then again, he probably took the whole “anything you say can and will be used against you” thing pretty seriously. More seriously than Malcolm ever took it, that was for sure.

“…There’s a boxing gym,” Murdock said at last, heavily, like he was wishing he’d kept his mouth shut about it after all. “My dad used to practice there.”

Before he died, according to Malcolm’s brief research. Malcolm waited, but Murdock didn’t offer any other information. Predictable. Malcolm shrugged. “Anyway, I’m going over there today. Wanna come with?”

“I can’t. I’m slammed with depositions today, plus my partner and I still need to go over all the evidence the DA threw at us.” Murdock pinched between his eyebrows, looking exhausted. “And figure out how to work around some statements our client may’ve made before her father’s murder.”

“Bad?” Malcolm asked softly.

“Let’s just say, the sooner you find something on the real killer, the better.”

Malcolm nodded. “I’m on it. Any tips on what to do with this guy, if I find him?”

Murdock settled his hands on his hips. “Get him to talk as much as you can. Record the conversation. Only one party needs to consent for the recording to be legal, so you should be fine. But don’t do anything that could make the situation seem coerced.”

“So I should leave my katanas at home, then?”

Murdock did not look amused.

“It’s a joke,” Malcolm said hastily. “There’s absolutely nothing intimidating about me, trust me.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Murdock muttered. He changed the subject. “Aren’t you with the police? The NYPD’s usually more cooperative with the DA’s office than with defense attorneys.”

Malcolm shrugged. “Maybe so, but I wanna catch a killer before he strikes again. Jared Worthington might be sated, but profiles are built on information, and I don’t have enough yet to know whether he’ll try to punish anyone else in the family for his father’s rejection.” He paused. “Such as his sister, who always got the affection he so desired. That’s all.”

It was a little white lie. The thing was, Murdock’s client didn’t deserve to go to jail for her brother’s crime, and maybe Malcolm could help with that. Unfortunately, Gil was right: the last thing Malcolm needed right now was to make enemies with the DA’s office by deliberately undermining their case. So he kept the extent of his motivation to himself.

Murdock didn’t say anything to Malcolm’s insistence. In fact, he looked strangely suspicious: staring-not-staring at Malcolm like Malcolm had just admitted to something.

It was a bit unnerving. “Well,” Malcolm said, mostly to fill the uncomfortable silence. “Like I said, I’ll tell you if I find anything.” He paused. “And, uh…maybe you and your office should keep your heads down? Just in case.” If the son _did_ have more anger to get out of his system, it was possible he’d widen his scope to include his sister’s lawyers. Especially if he couldn’t get to her.

Not probable. He thought. But possible.

“Oh, I always keep my head down,” Murdock said lightly, complete with a humble little head-bob.

Huh. He was good, Malcolm had to give him that. His glasses shielded his eyes from scrutiny and he didn’t delay before he spoke or fidget at all. Most people would buy it. But Malcolm had seen the coiled tension in Murdock at the negotiating meeting, and there was a similar energy under his skin now. Bottled lightning, basically.

Which made it _painfully_ obvious that he was lying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments on the last chapter? Made my entire week. I'm so excited to join this fandom!


	3. The Profile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: cliffhanger

Malcolm

Now with Murdock’s blessing, Malcolm went to Jared’s house (small, old, single-story) and found it empty. Not _abandoned_ , empty, which was a relief. But empty enough that there was no one around to interrogate. Swallowing his disappointment, he shoved his hands in his pockets and started making a slow loop around the property. Nothing illegal, just taking a look.

Okay, so he had to jump _one_ fence when he saw a package at the back door. Addressed to Jared—from Violet Worthington. Jared’s mother.

What was Mrs. Worthington doing, sending packages to her estranged son?

And what was in it? Malcolm didn’t open it, of course. He just kind of…picked it up and shook it a little. No big deal. Anyway, it wasn’t heavy and didn’t make any identifiable sounds. He glanced over his shoulder. No one was watching, so he leaned in and sniffed it. Just smelled like cardboard.

Still, at least he now knew there was some kind of connection between mother and son. That relationship could have a lot of explaining power. Or none at all. But maybe a lot.

If Violet Worthington was anything like Jessica, nothing would be able to keep her from getting involved. The question was, which of her remaining family members would she fight for?

Information, he needed more information. He needed a profile on Violet as well as on Jared. And he wouldn’t get either just by staring at an empty house. He’d have to come back tonight, when someone was more likely to be home.

But while he was in the area, he couldn’t help thinking about another profile. Pulling out his phone, he opened Google maps and typed in _Fogwell’s Gym_.

It was about five minutes away. The crotchety old man at the door eyed Malcolm doubtfully.

“You here to work out?” he croaked.

Malcolm smoothed down his suit. “Don’t I look it?”

The old man scowled.

“Martial arts,” Malcolm explained. “If you can’t do it in street clothes, you can’t do it at all.”

The old man did not look convinced.

Malcolm pulled a fifty-dollar bill out of his wallet. It finally did the trick, and the old man granted him entrance. Malcolm was honestly a bit surprised; he’d started to expect that he’d need to solve a riddle or something. All this cloak-and-dagger business was leaving Malcolm even more curious than before.

He stepped into the gym, wrinkling his nose at the smell of stale sweat. The place was empty, leaving Malcolm even more confused why the old man had been that reluctant to let Malcolm in if business was so bad. Then again, something about this place felt almost…historic? It was old, very old, and maybe Hell’s Kitchen just cared a weird amount about the legacy of their boxers?

Malcolm’s eyes landed on one faded poster. Battlin’ Jack Murdock. Matt Murdock’s father. He slid his gaze to the rest of the gym. There was the boxing ring, artfully placed in front of a row of stained windows. What caught Malcolm’s attention, however, were the punching bags hanging from chains. That might explain Matt’s torn knuckles.

Except why wouldn’t the son of a boxer wear protection when hitting a bag?

Matt’s profile was a tangled spiderweb of inconsistencies. Matt was clearly athletic, and it made sense that he’d find an outlet connected to his dad. But why boxing? Jack Murdock’s death was related to criminal activity involving boxing, if the reports could be believed, making it unlikely that his son would do anything associated with the sport in the pursuit of happy memories.

Then again, Malcolm couldn’t really judge anyone for getting too close to a criminal father’s activities.

Maybe Matt came here not for memories but to unleash the intensity he clearly felt over his cases? And why _was_ he so deeply invested in his cases, even though it looked like about half his clients paid him in fruit and strudels?

Malcolm approached the closest bag and touched it. Not in great shape; it looked about as humble as the rest of this place. Speaking of which, Matt clearly didn’t have a hero complex: he and his firm were definitely trying to stay under the radar; he didn’t seem to want any recognition despite all the good he was trying to do. Probably a messiah complex, though: that would explain why he cared so much about his cases, at least. But there was definitely more that Malcolm was missing, parts of Matt that were still unexplained.

Malcolm turned away. The real question for him was: why did he care so much about explaining Matt at all? Sure, he profiled everyone he came into regular contact with. Couldn’t really help it; it was like a reflex. But something about Matt, some aspect of his personality that seemed both dark and familiar, made Malcolm itch with curiosity.

The only straightforward thing about Matt was his propensity to lie: he was a lawyer; lies came with the territory.

“You just lookin’, son?”

Apparently fifty dollars only bought him five minutes. Malcolm turned around to face the gym’s owner. “I’m not your son. And sorry, I’ll get out of your hair.”

~

Malcolm waited restlessly until what might be commonly accepted as dinnertime (he indulged in a light snack and honestly couldn’t remember what he’d eaten) before heading back out again. He took a taxi across town and couldn’t stop his knee from vibrating, caught in the anticipation of getting enough information to complete Jared Worthington’s profile. In his head, he ran through a list of questions to ask—about his family, about his friends, about his childhood—but he knew from experience that he’d need to be ready to veer off to explore other topics. Adaptability, that was key. Well, that and improvisation.

But when he was dropped off under a streetlight at the curb outside the house, he found the place apparently still empty. No lights on, no noise. More like a shell of a house than an actual home. Still, he walked up the gravel path and knocked on the thin front door, which rattled under his knuckles. No answer. Big surprise.

Sighing, Malcolm retreated back under the streetlight and debated his next move. He’d come too far to go back across town, so the question was: how much farther was he prepared to go?

He eyed the door. Shouldn’t be hard to pick the lock, probably. It was worth a shot, wasn’t it?

He took one step towards the path when he heard a voice from behind: “Don’t go in there.”

Malcolm spun around, and couldn’t see anything. The voice had spoken from beyond the dim radius of the streetlight. “Um,” he said nervously, “hello?”

“That building. Don’t go in there.”

Malcolm squinted. “Who are you?” And why did he sound like he’d swallowed rocks? Malcolm would like to say it sounded stupid. It didn’t. Or maybe that was just because Malcolm had a sinking suspicion that he knew who this was.

He was in Hell’s Kitchen now, and everyone knew that Hell’s Kitchen had a bit of a vigilante problem.

The voice got closer, even though Malcolm hadn’t heard so much as a single footstep. “You need to leave.”

“Why?” Malcolm should’ve brought a weapon. Maybe not a katana, but _something_.

The voice didn’t respond. It occurred to Malcolm that the voice probably wasn’t used to being disobeyed.

“Why?” Malcolm pressed. He lifted his chin. “I’m with the NYPD.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Excuse me?” Malcolm was indignant. “I’m a consultant.”

“You’re not a cop. You’re not a detective. Leave.”

For all that the vigilante was supposed to be violent, he wasn’t exactly threatening Malcolm right now. All he was doing was being creepy and bossy. Malcolm raised his hands to show that he wasn’t armed. “You’re Daredevil, right? Look, I’m pretty sure you have a kidnapping to stop somewhere. Isn’t that your thing? Or is loitering the worst crime in Hell’s Kitchen these days?”

No answer. The silence seemed somehow sullen.

“Cool,” Malcolm said. “So, you can go deal with _actual_ bad guys, and I’ll just hang out here and work my case.”

Still no answer.

Okay. Given the established fact that Malcolm couldn’t hear when Daredevil moved, this new silence was definitely unnerving now. He glanced over his shoulder. All he knew at this point was that Daredevil hadn’t moved into the light. Beyond that, though….

Without warning, the front door of the house swung open. Malcolm jumped at the sudden movement. A second later, the door closed.

Well, apparently Daredevil was done with their conversation. But all that meant was that he couldn’t blame Malcolm for simply following his lead. Malcolm crept along the overgrowth path to the front door (annoyed when gravel crunched under his feet and wondering what kind of training it took for Daredevil to move so silently). The door creaked as he opened it. He stepped across the threshold. Darkness swallowed the thin line of light from the streetlight outside when he closed the door again.

The second the light was gone, a gloved hand fisted in Malcolm’s shirt, throwing him against the wall with enough force to make the old house tremble. Malcolm instinctively jabbed out with his palm, a move designed to crack the bridge of an opponent’s nose. No such luck—an arm blocked Malcolm’s strike, a hand grabbed his wrist, and a sharp twisting motion made Malcolm double over.

He caught his breath. He could still _try_ to fight his way out of this one, but the pressure on his wrist’s joint was making that seem like a very bad idea.

“I told you to leave,” a voice growled in his ear.

“Yeah, but…” Malcolm winced as Daredevil twisted his wrist harder. “You didn’t even say please.”

“Why are you so interested in this place?”

“There’s a… _ngh_ , ow,” he grunted. “There’s a girl, falsely accused. If I can solve the crime, I can prove she didn’t do it.”

After a moment, the pressure lessened. “The man who lives here committed murder. He might do it again if someone doesn’t stop him.”

“That, too,” Malcolm acknowledged.

The hands dropped away.

Malcolm straightened up, rubbing his shoulder indignantly. “So we’re after the same thing, then.” Although he’d never been under the impression that the vigilante was much for investigation. Stopping crimes as they happened seemed like more his thing. “Just so you know, I’m thinking we’ll get more done if you’re not trying to break my arm.”

The voice from the shadows laughed darkly. “Trust me, if I were trying to break your arm, you’d know.”

Malcolm didn’t exactly doubt it, but he rolled his eyes. It took more than the threat of a broken arm to intimidate a man who’d once purposefully broken his own hand. Withdrawing a flashlight from his coat, he clicked it on. The beam lit up a dusty couch and a counter laden with multiple dirty dishes. No sign of the vigilante, though, who must’ve ducked (silently) out of the way of the beam. Rolling his eyes again, Malcolm advanced into the house.

He quickly realized that it wasn’t single-story after all: some of his footsteps on the hardwood floor echoed, suggesting there was a basement underneath. He narrowed his eyes, looking for any signs of stairs or a back door. Sweeping the flashlight back and forth in front of him, he _finally_ managed to catch Daredevil in the beam. The man was dressed head-to-toe in black with a black mask fitted snugly over the top half of his face.

So he’d opted for stealth instead of the frankly garish red armor? That suggested that he’d come here _intending_ to sneak into this house. But why would a vigilante care about solving a crime that, according to the general public, was already a closed case?

“Watch your step,” Daredevil muttered. “Floor’s not stable.”

“What?”

It was hard to tell, what with the mask and all, but Malcolm was ninety-nine percent sure Daredevil was sending him a very significant look. Not turning his head, Daredevil pointedly pressed his foot onto the floorboard right in front of him.

The piece of wood snapped in two, dropping down into the pitch-black basement below.

Malcolm sprang backwards with a yelp.

“ _Shh_ ,” Daredevil hissed. “And stop…” He waved his hand in annoyance. “Jumping.”

Malcolm squinted at him. “How’d you know about the floor?”

Daredevil walked deeper into the shadows and Malcolm was almost convinced he wouldn’t answer. Then he simply said, “Spend a lot of my time in abandoned buildings.”

That was…possibly the whole truth. Somehow, Malcolm doubted it.

Daredevil sighed. “Just…test the floor before you step.”

Fair enough. Malcolm crept through the kitchen and slowly nudged open the door blocking off the next room. As he shone his flashlight inside, his jaw dropped. Every square inch of the walls was practically wallpapered with scraps. Newspaper clippings. Pages filled with typed letters—Times New Roman, twelve point font. Some drawings that looked like they’d been done by a kid. Pictures.

“Look at this place,” Malcolm breathed.

Daredevil slipped past him into the room but didn’t answer.

Well, Malcolm hadn’t really expected him to. He surveyed the rest of the room. It was a relatively normal living room, with the obvious exception of the walls. Couch, armchair, coffee table, two lamps. Malcolm wasn’t interested in those, though. He approached the nearest wall to study it.

The pictures were of father and son. The newspaper clippings were of the son’s successes: winning various school competitions, an article or two on something he’d invented, even an interview with the _Bulletin_ because Jared…Malcolm glanced sideways at his unconventional partner. Jared had been rescued by Daredevil once, apparently. Or so Jared told the reporters.

Daredevil’s tongue flicked out to lick his lips impatiently. “We need to keep moving.”

“Are you kidding me?” Malcolm turned his gaze back to the wall. “There’s so much here! This is…I don’t know what this is, yet, but it’s a _goldmine_ , I know that.”

Daredevil’s voice was tense: “What is?”

“You know, the—” Malcolm stopped.

Wait.

Wait a second.

He stared at the other man.

No way. No way. It didn’t make sense.

But…it fit the profile. This was the missing piece. This tied the boxing and the cases together in one man so intensely determined to help people that he fought for them with both his intellect and his fists.

Bottled lightning.

Malcolm’s system lit up with adrenaline, the high of putting the pieces together making him almost giddy, making him completely forget to watch his step. He walked straight towards Daredevil before he could even think about whether that was a bad decision, especially with the way Daredevil—or _Matt_ —was tensing up right before his eyes.

Before he could get close enough for Matt to punch him or something, though, Malcolm stepped on a rotting piece of wood that snapped under his weight. He dropped hard, leg shooting through the floor, and hung there suspended for one startling second before the rest of the floor holding him up crumbled like a falling house of cards.

Malcolm’s ankle twisted the same way as he landed in the basement below. He fell onto his back in a swirl of dust and pain, panting, ankle throbbing. A beam of reinforced wood fell belatedly, landing on his leg and almost crushing it, pinning it to the cold cement beneath him.

“Malcolm!” That was Matt’s voice. In his panic, he’d forgotten to sound gravely. “You all right?”

“Just…” Malcolm tried to sit up and grimaced as the beam over his leg tipped to the side, driving more weight the wrong way against his leg. He quickly stopped moving. “ _Peachy_.”

“Hold tight, I’m coming to get you.”

“Wait—” Malcolm started to protest.

He should’ve saved his breath. Matt was crouched at the edge of the new hole in the floor, backlit because the room above was a _slightly_ lighter shade of black than the heavy blackness Malcolm was currently suffocating in. Shrouded by dust motes, Matt looked more and more like the supernatural creature he claimed to represent. Without another word, he flipped over the edge, landing lightly on his toes next to Malcolm.

Malcolm kind of wanted to hate him for sticking the landing like that.

“You sure you’re okay?” Matt’s masked face tipped towards Malcolm’s leg. “Your ankle’s sprained.”

“How do you know?” Malcolm demanded. He didn’t get an answer. “Never mind. I’ve had worse anyway.” Malcolm tried to shift, but his leg and ankle both twinged in protest. “I’m slightly stuck, that’s all. No worries, I can just…” He tried to sit up again.

This time he was stopped by Matt’s hand on his chest as the other man crouched next to him. “Don’t move. I’m gonna get you out of here. I think…”

Then he froze.

Malcolm felt his heart speeding up. “What?”

“Shh,” Matt hissed, glancing up towards the ceiling.

Malcolm waited. For about five seconds. Then: “What’s—”

“ _Shh_.” Matt cautiously stood up. “The floor above us is unstable.”

“Believe it or not, I figured that out. What, is me talking gonna knock it down?”

Even in the darkness and even under the mask, Matt somehow managed to throw Malcolm a glare. “You talking will keep me from hearing how imminent the collapse is.”

Malcolm’s heart beat faster in his ears. “What—all of it?”

“This building’s old,” Matt murmured, taking a careful step towards the middle of the basement room. “Not built to code. Add rotted wood and no repair jobs since…” He tilted his head, “the eighties, probably…”

“ _How_ can you know that?”

“I told you to be quiet.”

Malcolm settled into disgruntled silence. His leg really hurt, though. He tried moving it again, and sucked in a break at the new pressure on his bone. Fibula. Or was it the tibia? Always got those two mixed up. He was half trying to remember random pictures of the skeletal structure and half trying to figure out what in the area he could use to prop up the beam so he could get free when Matt very suddenly threw himself at Malcolm.

And then the floor above them collapsed.


	4. Tread Carefully

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliffhanger, that's cool, right?

Matt

The splintering of wood sounded like gunshots from this close and a sudden weight landed across Matt’s back as he pressed chest-to-chest against Malcolm. The chair crashed to the ground just beyond Matt’s elbow, dust flying everywhere. He couldn’t keep track of things, couldn’t anticipate anything, and it was sheer luck that another floorboard landed on Matt’s head instead of the profiler’s. Something else slammed down onto his shoulders while Malcolm flinched beneath Matt with each new impact from above. The couch shook the floor when it landed on the far side of the basement. The lamp was next, and sparks lit up Matt’s senses when it landed in the heap, but the dust in the air choked out the fire before it could spread.

When the sky finally stopped falling, the house still trembled, beams groaning.

Malcolm’s breath ghosted over Matt’s shoulder, thin and shaky. “What—what—”

“Shh,” Matt murmured. Not because he needed to listen (although keeping an ear out for sirens was probably a good idea, as was listening in case Jared Worthington came home and decided to punish the two idiots who’d broken his home) but because Malcolm’s voice was like a knife in Matt’s brand new headache. Concussion, possibly? That would explain why the world was currently undulating sickeningly around him. And the _smell_ of broken, rotted wood—he wanted to gag.

Focus. Matt got his hands under his shoulders in a push-up position…and realized that he couldn’t lift himself more than an inch or two no matter how hard he strained against the rubble.

His muscles trembled. He quickly lowered himself back against Malcolm before his arms gave out.

Malcolm was quiet for a long moment; Matt could feel his lungs struggling to expand under all the weight. Matt felt a stab of nauseating guilt.

“We’re stuck?” Malcolm finally managed to ask.

Matt grunted in reply. Technically, he’d been in far worse situations. Being trapped in an abandoned building with a bleeding-out human trafficker while hunted by police with dogs and helicopters…that was pretty bad. Being trapped in the church while trying to protect Karen from being murdered by the FBI…that was pretty bad too.

But being trapped literally on top of a _criminal profiler_ who worked for the NYPD, and who had already met Matt twice as his civilian self? This was an entirely different kind of dangerous.

It was gonna be fine. He just had to…not do or say anything remotely like Matt Murdock for however long it took them to get out of here.

Malcolm wiggled a little beneath him. “Do you mind…I can’t feel my arm.”

Grunting again, Matt tried to maneuver so he wasn’t cutting off Malcolm’s circulation.

“ _Ow_ —stopstop _stop!_ ”

Matt froze, head throbbing from Malcolm’s sudden shriek. He heard wood creaking behind him, and heard a softer creaking sound as well: Malcolm’s bone. His leg was pinned at the wrong angle, and the heavy planks pressing against the bone were barely stable. If either of them moved too much more, the leg would break, and a sprained ankle would be the least of his worries.

“Sorry,” Malcolm whispered.

Matt didn’t reply. He rested his forehead on Malcolm’s shoulder, gritting his teeth. He needed to focus. He needed a plan. He _needed_ the room to stop spinning.

“It’s okay,” Malcolm said gently, like a father trying to soothe a fussy child. “I think I can reach my phone, I’ll text my friends on the force. They can get us out of—”

“No,” Matt growled.

“You may not have noticed, but we’re kind of in a dire situation here. Let me just—”

“You touch your phone, I break your leg.”

(Well, he wouldn’t do it on purpose. But he’d certainly try to stop Malcom from sending that text, which would _incidentally_ break Malcolm’s leg. So.)

Malcolm laughed weakly, a sound quickly snuffed out like he couldn’t get enough oxygen. He probably couldn’t. Matt tried to discretely position himself less directly over Malcolm’s lungs. “Okay, got it,” the profiler said. “No police friends.” A pause. “You could call someone, though.”

Ha. Not likely. Foggy and Karen both knew he was Daredevil, but Foggy would be pissed at Matt for breaking into someone’s house, and Karen would…well, Matt didn’t really know what Karen would do. They were still regaining their footing together.

“No friends,” Malcolm deduced quietly. “That fits.”

Fit with _what?_ A chill raced down Matt’s spine. He clenched his jaw and said nothing.

Malcolm’s heart beat faster; Matt could feel it pounding between them. He was nervous. “But you know,” he said with a quick, shallow inhale, “you can’t keep doing this without friends. You just can’t.”

It didn’t feel right to threaten him again so soon after threatening to break his leg, especially since a lecture on friendship was objectively less dangerous to Matt than phone calls to the NYPD, so Matt kept his mouth shut.

“This whole masked vigilante thing you’ve got going on,” Malcolm went on. “Don’t get me wrong, I respect that. Seriously. But…you must see a lot of evil in the world, right? Trust me, I’m familiar.”

Matt didn’t trust him. Not enough, at least. “Stop talking.”

Malcolm’s pulse sped up even more. “I’m just saying, you should probably try to have more people on your side, you know?” He hesitated. Held his breath. Then he said: “But I guess you already do, right?”

Matt tensed—and then automatically tensed more when he realized Malcolm could definitely feel it. “What are you talking about?”

“Your friends,” Malcolm said. If Matt couldn’t hear the other man’s rapid heartbeats, he wouldn’t even realize the man was scared. Malcolm’s voice was low and steady, a voice that might calm a skittish animal. “It makes sense that you’d try to keep them away from this part of your life. Do they even know about it?”

Matt tried to stretch an arm, see if he could move some of the rubble. All he got for his efforts was the slice of a rusty nail across his forearm. He tasted copper. Fantastic.

“Look, I’m not saying I’m an expert on companionship. Pretty much the opposite, actually. But I _do_ understand human psychology. We need interaction. Trust. That’s what your friends want from you, and it’s what you need from them.”

Matt gritted his teeth. “I thought you figured out that I don’t have friends. Isn’t that your _profile?_ ”

Malcolm didn’t answer right away. His rapid heartbeats were deafeningly loud in this small space. “It’s half your profile,” he admitted at last.

What?

Malcolm shifted a little under Matt’s weight, like he was trying to get more space between them. “The half of you that’s the vigilante. But the other half of you, that half has friends.”

Matt strained against the rubble trapping them together. In other circumstances, this would be the point where Matt would use a quick punch to the temple to knock Malcolm unconscious. But he didn’t have the right angle to get enough force. Besides, despite the immediate danger the profiler posed, he was someone Matt instinctively wanted to protect. Not harm. So he kept perfectly still, even holding his breath. Waiting.

“Because you’re not just a vigilante,” Malcolm said, almost _gently._ “You’re the lawyer. Matt Murdock.”

Matt dropped his forehead onto Malcolm’s shoulder again. No point in fighting it now.

“You really are blind, right? That’s why you didn’t see all the pictures and everything on the wall. But how do you do…what you do?”

Matt couldn’t help appreciating that he’d finally run across someone whose first assumption wasn’t that Matt was faking his blindness, but that didn’t lessen his anxiety. “Listen. Malcolm. My identity isn’t a secret I keep just for my own protection, it’s for the protection of the people I love. I’ve made powerful enemies who won’t hesitate to go through them to get to me as soon as they realize they have any connection to Daredevil. If you feel the need to go to the NYPD with this, I’ll understand, but I need you to—”

“Whoa, whoa.” Bizarrely, Malcolm managed to sound indignant. He coughed. “I never said anything about the NYPD.”

Matt raised his eyebrows under his mask. “You…you’re saying you wouldn’t tell them?”

“Why would I?”

Because Matt was a criminal. Because as a defense attorney, Matt made a living out of undoing the NYPD’s work. Or if for no other reason, because it would send Malcolm’s credibility as a profiler through the metaphorical roof.

“And I’m supposed to take your word on that,” Matt said.

Malcolm tried to shrug in their confined space. “Well, otherwise, I’m pretty sure you’ll track me down and break my face.”

No, that wasn’t it. Matt couldn’t stalk Malcolm twenty-four seven just to make sure he kept his mouth shut, and they both knew it. “Tell me why you won’t turn me in. Tell me the truth.”

Malcolm sighed. The silence stretched out until Matt was convinced he wouldn’t actually answer. Then he sighed again, and there was a new weight to his voice when he said, “My birth name was Malcolm Whitley. I changed it because of my father. Martin Whitley.”

Matt felt his eyes widen under the mask. He didn’t often deal with serial killers, not in Hell’s Kitchen. Criminals in Hell’s Kitchen usually weren’t finessed enough to last long enough to _be_ a serial killer, and they were more motivated by things like money or survival than the thrill of taking life after life.

Martin Whitley, though. Renowned doctor. Saved countless lives on the operating table. Took twenty-three by his own sadistic methods. “No. The Surgeon? That’s what they called him, right? No. Your father?”

“Oh, yes.” Malcolm’s voice turned soft and reminiscent. “When I was ten, I realized what he was doing. I called the police. He was arrested. I know I saved lives that day. But if I’d seen what he was doing sooner…” He shook his head. “That’s not the point. The point is, every night that you’re out on the street, you’re helping people.” His words hardened with conviction and…anger underneath it. “With my father, I saved lives by turning him in. But…by turning you in, I’d be doing the opposite.”

Matt strained his ears. It was unnecessary—Malcolm’s heartbeat rang out loud and clear and steady.

Malcolm cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Besides, calling the NYPD would just get my ass arrested for breaking and entering, so…”

Matt almost relaxed. “Not…exactly,” he said reluctantly. “You didn’t break anything. You’re only entering. Did you enter with the intent to commit a crime?”

“…No?” Malcolm guessed.

“Then the worst thing you could be accused of is trespassing. Third degree. Misdemeanor. You’re fine. Besides, you won’t get caught. I’ll get us out of here.”

Malcolm waited a polite amount of time. But when Matt didn’t manage to magic them out of their situation, he asked, “How, exactly?”

“Give me a minute.”

“Sure,” Malcolm said, but then he tried to flex his ankle and hissed. “So, I have to ask,” he said quickly, like he was trying to distract himself. His voice was tight with pain.

Matt slowly, slowly drew up one knee, setting it on the concrete next to Malcolm’s hip. He might be able to get the worst of the rubble off himself. But he might sacrifice Malcolm’s leg in the process. He remembered belatedly that Malcolm had asked him a question. “Ask what?”

“Your whole…vigilante thing. You’re blind, so, what, do you echolocate? Like bats?”

“Bats aren’t blind.”

“I know that,” Malcolm said dismissively. “But…?”

“Chemical spill. When I was a kid. Heightened my remaining senses.” Matt pushed slightly upwards, listening to the creak of rotting wood. And he got nothing, no clear path, no way to move enough rubble to get them free.

He had a sinking feeling that they were gonna have to use a phone after all.

“And the fighting?” Malcolm probed. “You learned how to box from your dad, right?”

Matt froze. “What did you say?”

Malcolm hesitated, like he could tell he was nearing dangerous waters. “Your father. Jack Murdock.”

Anger shot through Matt’s bones. “What, you googled him?”

“I googled you first, actually, but I also went to that gym you mentioned. It definitely has a sort of run-down appeal, but—”

“You went to my _gym?_ ” Matt let a growl seep into his voice. Fogwell’s was sacred. The one place Matt felt connected to his dad, and for so long the one place where he could be _himself_.

Malcolm’s heartrate sped up ever so slightly. Matt took vicious satisfaction in the fact that he could be intimidating even while they were literally squished face-to-face. “You’re the one who said it was in the area, and I needed to know more about you to complete the profile.” He tried to take a deeper breath. “Look, I’m not gonna judge you for what your father did. I mean, that would be the _height_ of hypocri—”

“ _Don’t_.” Matt’s right hand curled into a fist. “Don’t talk about my dad.”

Malcolm somehow managed to press himself even more against the concrete, but he lifted his chin defiantly. “Hey, okay. I’m just saying.”

“Yeah, well, stop saying it.”

Malcolm lapsed into silence.

But Matt hated to think what he might be thinking, what he might be piecing together. Sometimes Matt almost managed to convince himself that he only kept secrets when he had to. Judging by his new desperation to find an escape from the profiler…that might not be true.

He snapped the fingers on one hand, listening to the echo. He got nothing. There wasn’t enough space for even _sound_ to move like it was supposed to. He took a slow, steadying breath, fighting off the encroaching claustrophobia. But it was sickeningly obvious by now: even if Foggy was willing to help, Matt wasn’t convinced he’d be able to shift enough of the rubble to get them out of there. Not without hurting Malcolm more, anyway. Malcolm, whose ankle pulsed with heat, a stark reminder that he’d already gotten hurt enough in this ill-advised adventure.

The smart thing—the _kind_ thing, the Christian thing—would be to swallow his pride and his fear and let Malcolm call his team. But that felt like stepping off a ledge with nothing but an NYPD profiler’s word to catch him. And for all Matt knew, Malcolm could’ve spun together that whole speech about trust and friendship just to get Matt to agree to let him bring in the police. It hadn’t sounded like a lie, but what was Matt using to determine that, really? A heartbeat that was already rabbit-fast from fear and pain and adrenaline? Malcolm was an expert in human psychology. If anyone could pull off manipulation to get past Matt’s senses, it was him.

And his father was a serial killer. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, undetected for at least a decade.

Malcolm could talk about _trust_ all he wanted, but it was never that simple.

~

Malcom

Malcolm blinked helplessly in the utter darkness. Breathing in this position was not easy. Everyone always said muscle mass was heavy, and that was true of Matt, but add what felt like several tons of reinforced flooring on top of that and it was enough to make Malcolm feel slightly light-headed.

And Matt was still refusing to give up.

Maybe if _he_ were the one slowly suffocating with a painfully-swelling ankle, he’d be more sympathetic to their need for help.

Instead, Matt pushed off the ground again, and Malcolm thought he heard the scrape of wood for a second before Matt sank back down, his chin falling onto Malcolm’s shoulder, panting slightly.

Malcolm braced himself. “Matt. Just let me call my team. They won’t turn on you, I swear. You just…you just have to trust me. I mean, we’re practically friends at this point, right? Bonded through trauma if nothing else. Commonly known as the misattribution of affection, to be fair, but I’m not asking for affection. Just trust.”

Matt’s voice was low beside him. “Your father was a serial killer.”

Malcolm pulled back his lips in a grim imitation of a smile. It always came back to that, didn’t it? If not from other people’s mouths, then from his own head. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Was he killing while he raised you?”

If Malcolm’s mouth was dry, it was only because of all the dust. “…Yes. I didn’t know, though. Not until…not until at the end.”

Well. Except for that missing week he still couldn’t remember, that missing week before the arrest. He’d known, then, who his father was. Sort of. Through the haze of chloroform.

(He’d known. He’d known enough to call the police. He should’ve called _sooner_.)

“And now you hunt serial killers,” Matt said. His voice was steady, unemotional. These were neutral questions, not adversarial; he was leading Malcolm where he wanted him to go.

Malcolm just wasn’t sure where that was. “That’s the job,” he said lightly.

“Does your father know?”

Malcolm thought about how to explain the visits to Claremont Psychiatric. Thought about how to mention the fact that he occasionally got his father’s advice on cases. Wondered whether it would be at all convincing if Malcolm insisted that he, not his father, was the one setting the terms of their relationship. No, none of that was worth getting into right now. “Think there’s hope for a bathroom break any time soon?”

“And you use what you know of him to understand other murderers?” Matt asked, unamused.

Malcolm hesitated. “I, uh…I visited him when I was younger. As part of my studies. What I learned from him, what I…what I saw in him, it…helps me get inside the heads of other killers.”

Matt didn’t say anything to that. And without any way to see him, Malcolm didn’t have enough information to guess at what he was thinking. Was he confused? Skeptical? Was he beginning to suspect that Malcolm was more like his father than he wanted to admit?

Malcolm closed his eyes. “Listen. It doesn’t—”

“ _Shh_ ,” Matt hissed suddenly, lifting slightly off Malcolm yet again.

This again. Was it a power trip for him, telling people to shut up? “What is it?”

“It’s—” Matt held his breath.

And then Malcolm heard it: the creak of the front door. He stiffened. “We got company?”

Footsteps overhead. The clatter of keys being tossed onto a table. Footsteps into the kitchen. The refrigerator door opening and closing. Footsteps towards the living room.

The person stopped just at the edge of the collapsed hole. More dust fell from above. Malcolm’s throat spasmed as he suppressed a cough.

Matt slowly pressed himself back against Malcolm, his voice a breath in Malcolm’s ear. “Don’t. Move.”


	5. Legacy

Matt

Jared Worthington’s heartrate was through the roof, the air thick with dust and the smell of his sweat. Matt felt Malcolm trembling beneath him, but the profiler was at least keeping his mouth shut for once.

Jared, on the other hand, was swearing freely up above. He snatched something up and tossed it down; the thing landed with a clatter only a few inches from Matt’s right hip.

“Hey!” Jared shouted. “Who’s in there?”

At least Matt had opted to wear black instead of red. He had no idea how dark the basement was and no idea what color Malcolm’s expensive suit was, but he could only hope that he and Malcolm were camouflaged under the rubble.

Then he heard the _click_ of a gun.

Malcolm’s pulse skyrocketed.

Squeezing his eyes closed, Matt pressed closer against Malcolm, trying to cover every inch of him, and whispered a quick, desperate prayer: _please, God, let it hit me instead._ What caliber was the gun? At this range, his body wouldn’t do much to slow the trajectory of most bullets, but—

_BANG._

The sound was a sledgehammer to Matt’s bruised brain. The bullet tore through wood and lodged in the stuffing of the couch on the other side of the basement.

Jared breathed heavily through his nostrils. He edged around the corner of the room, feet sticking close to the baseboard where the remaining wood was more stable. He reached the wall Malcolm had been so fascinated by and, to Matt’s confusion, started…tearing down the wallpaper?

Matt felt his eyes widen. No, not wallpaper. Just…paper.

A goldmine, Malcolm had called it.

Crumpling it all into a bundle, Jared scooted back along the wall. Matt heard a bag unzip, heard Jared stuff things into it. This happened twice more in different rooms before Jared zipped everything back up. His footsteps, now heavier, clomped out of the house. The door slammed shut.

Malcolm stirred a little. “I can’t feel my legs.”

Matt ignored him, straining his senses to track Jared’s footsteps down the gravel path outside. He got into a car (Matt heard the door open and close), but the engine was little more than a purr. Matt wasn’t exactly an expert on cars, but that one had to be more expensive than this entire house and everything in it.

“Matt,” Malcolm urged.

“What?”

“I realize your whole do-it-alone thing is essential to your vigilante reputation, and believe me, I am normally _all for_ ignoring backup, but I’m gonna be completely transparent here: my ankle really hurts and you’re…really heavy.”

Matt grimaced into the darkness.

“My friends won’t arrest you if I tell them not too, all right? I swear.”

Malcolm’s heartbeat wasn’t lying. But Malcolm couldn’t read his friends’ minds.

Then again, even Matt was reluctantly realizing that they were out of options. He groaned under his breath. “All right. Call them.”

~

Malcolm

_Finally._

Malcolm tried to shift his hips enough to get to the phone in his pocket. Matt made a pained grunt, probably from some new angle of pressure from all the rubble.

“Sorry,” Malcolm whispered, even though his whole leg was aching and whatever was keeping the heavier planks from cracking his bone seemed like an incredibly precarious setup.

Matt just shook his head, which might mean “Don’t be” or might mean “Shut up.” Malcolm couldn’t tell.

Malcolm managed to get his hand into his pocket, extricate the phone, and turn it on—which promptly shone the screen’s light straight into his face, forcing him to make a very undignified yipping sound as he screwed his eyes shut.

“What?” Matt demanded.

“Nothing,” Malcolm mumbled. “Just temporarily blinded myself.”

“Sounds rough,” Matt said dryly.

Malcolm’s answering smile felt a little stupid, but the glimpse of the other man’s sense of humor was, frankly, delightful. Malcolm wasn’t stupid enough to think they were _friends_ , but maybe…allies?

Trauma-bonding really was a thing, after all.

Squinting through the lingering dark spot in his vision, he managed to thumb through his contacts and find Gil. _SOS,_ he typed, followed by the house’s address. _Trapped under rubble with a lost vigilante._

Gil’s response was to skip texting and go straight to a phone call, as evinced by the phone suddenly vibrating in Malcolm’s hand.

“At least you turned the ringer off,” Matt commented.

Malcolm felt mildly indignant. “I’m not an amateur.” He slid his arm under Matt’s shoulders to get the phone up to his ear. “Hey, Gil?”

“Lollipops?” Gil demanded. It was the safe word he’d given Malcolm when Malcolm was ten years old, in case he was in a dangerous situation and couldn’t admit it.

“No lollipops,” Malcolm hurried to reassure him. “I’m perfectly fine. Well, mostly fine. Just stuck, that’s all.”

“What the hell, Bright?”

“Don’t panic,” Malcolm said, over-enunciating in a way that never succeeded at calming anyone down despite his repeated efforts. “But, um, how soon can you get here?”

“By _here_ you mean Jared Worthington’s house, which will be an active crime scene as soon as we show up?”

Malcolm felt Matt’s entire body stiffen.

“…I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t come in your official capacity,” Malcolm admitted. “Given, y’know, present company.”

Gil’s sigh was a sharp burst of static. “Any other hostiles?”

Matt hesitated, then gave a small shake of his head.

“Nope,” Malcolm reported. “But…we’re kinda in a tight spot, so if you could maybe come, y’know, sooner rather than later…”

It was quiet on the other end of the line. Gil was probably fuming. Malcolm felt his stomach churn with guilt.

But then Gil said he was on his way like it had never been in doubt. They hung up, and Malcolm already felt like he could breathe a little easier, further reinforcing the connection between a person’s psychological state and their physical one.

“So,” Matt said, voice suspiciously casual, “who’s Gil?”

Well, he was gonna find out for himself pretty soon. “He’s the best man I’ve ever met,” Malcolm said quietly.

Whatever Matt had been expecting, it clearly wasn’t _that_. Malcolm felt the other man's chest expand as he took a breath, about to speak, about to ask questions that Malcolm didn't want to answer.

Malcolm changed the topic. “So! You’re religious?”

Matt’s head slowly swiveled, giving the impression that he was staring at Malcolm. Like a tiger might stare at a field mouse.

“C’mon, man, you whispered that prayer right in my ear. And, uh…” Malcolm wiggled his half-asleep arm up enough to scratch awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I appreciate the very kind sentiment, but please don’t ask God to kill you instead of me. It wouldn’t exactly be fair.”

“…Fair,” Matt repeated. There was a question in his voice, but also a warning.

“For one thing, because you’re obviously more devout than I am. I mean, praying while someone’s shooting at you probably isn’t _totally_ unique to the devout, but I didn’t even think about any higher powers, so…regular heathen here, nice to meet you.”

Matt did not laugh.

“You, on the other hand,” Malcolm went on more thoughtfully. “You’re serious about it. Is that why you go with the horns and the devil theme? Religion must’ve played a prominent role in your development, in your—”

“ _Stop_.”

The growl promised bad things if Malcolm didn’t cooperate. “Okay, all right. Sorry. I’ll stop,” he added, but Matt still vibrated with tension above him.

So. At least two areas of his life were still off-limits: his dad and his religion.

The conversation kinda died after that. Malcolm wanted more information (he always did), but he didn’t want to push too far. Trauma bonding could only grant him so much leeway. As for Matt, he didn’t seem to feel the need to break the silence. So Malcolm just lied there, flat on his back, trying not to think about his ankle or his legs or the steady pressure on his lungs.

Trying not to think about how upset Gil was gonna be.

Trying not to hope Gil brought Dani.

Trying not to think about what Martin would say if he knew his son was teaming up with a violent vigilante.

_Must be nice, not to feel like the most unhinged person in the room for once._

Shoving that voice away, Malcolm forced his mind to focus on everything he’d seen pinned to Jared’s wall. It sounded like he’d ripped it all down, meaning Malcolm’s memory might be all they had left of that evidence. (Gil was gonna be _pissed_.) All those pictures and newspaper stories…it looked like the son was building his identity around his father. No, not _around_ his father; if that were true, Jared never would have killed him. But _in reaction to_ his father—yes, that was it.

But that raised the question: what would Jared do now, with his father dead? Where would he go to find his identity?

He still hadn’t come up with an answer when Matt suddenly tensed again. He was like…a giant watchdog, or one of those canaries from the coal mines. “What?” Malcolm asked.

Matt took his time replying, and when he did, he didn’t sound happy. “I just hope those are your police friends up there.”

“Gil?” Malcolm tried to sit up, which knocked his chin against Matt’s head and sent pain shooting down his leg and his ankle. “ _Ow_ —sorry.” He strained his ears, but he couldn’t hear anything different. How good _were_ Matt’s senses?

(It was gonna be so much fun to test them.)

A few minutes later, he heard Gil’s voice up at the front door: “NYPD, open up!” The door creaked open loudly, and then there were footsteps above. “Bright, where are you?”

“Here!” Malcolm tried to yell, only to realize just how restricted his lungs were, because he couldn’t get above the low volume he and Matt had been using.

Matt made a short hissing sound, like he’d instinctively tried to start shushing Malcolm only to stop himself.

Malcolm heard Gil’s heavy boots above them. “Bright!”

Sighing, Matt pushed off Malcolm enough for Malcolm to suck in a breath and yell, “Here!” No sooner had the word escaped his throat then Matt sank back onto Malcolm, panting.

Gil swore above them. “Dani, JT, get in here!”

More footsteps. Matt was increasingly becoming a heavy slab of anxiety on Malcolm’s chest. Rubble shifted on the other corner of the room; Malcolm couldn’t tell exactly what was going on, but he heard Dani’s voice not from above but almost even with him, like she was crawling down into the mess. “Easy, Bright, easy. We’re here.”

“Careful,” Matt called, voice scratchy but a bit louder than Malcolm’s. “His leg’s trapped.”

“Who’s that?” Dani asked, her voice neutral. Malcolm had heard it plenty of times by now: the voice she used when she was undecided whether the other person was a hostile.

The word seemed dragged out of Matt: “It’s Daredevil. Just follow my voice, but move slowly.”

Malcolm couldn’t hear well enough to tell who was where and doing what. He was concentrating on not moving a centimeter. Dani, and maybe Gil and even JT, picked their way steadily closer, pushing things aside but not doing anything that would shift the rubble actually pinning Matt and Malcolm.

“Okay,” Dani said suddenly, her voice shockingly close. “How do we do this?”

“To your left,” Matt said, his voice rough and gravely again. “Move the flooring over our heads first.”

“Bright?” Gil checked.

“Do what he says,” Malcolm breathed.

There was a loud scraping sound, and heavy panting that actually had enough space now to echo around the room. After a minute or two, the oppressive darkness lessened bit by bit, light starting to filtering him from above. They dragged the last floorboard off from over Matt’s head, and Malcolm and Matt both gasped for oxygen.

Blinking as three flashlights now shone in his face, Malcolm was struck again by the chilling sight of Matt’s black, eyeless mask, dust and splinters now clinging to the fabric. “Hey,” he said quickly, trying to sound smooth and in control. “Gil, Dani, JT, this is Daredevil. Daredevil, this is Lieutenant Gil Arroyo, Detective Dani Powell, and Detective Julian Thaddeus Tarmel.”

“JT,” JT corrected.

“Listen,” Matt said impatiently. “Malcolm’s leg is stuck, and the weight could break it if you move the floorboards the wrong way. Start at our feet and work your way up, and make sure you lift straight up.”

“On it,” Gil said. Neither Dani nor JT said anything, and Malcolm couldn’t quite interpret their silence. But they followed instructions.

A broken leg wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to him, but Malcolm still closed his eyes and held his breath, trying to fight off the fear, as his friends started working their way through the rubble.

“Careful!” Matt blurted out suddenly. In his _Matt_ voice, no less. He was back to growling when he hastily added, “Slow down.”

Malcolm focused on counting his breaths. He really should’ve worked harder at meditation and yoga and all of that. Instead, he just ended up painfully aware of all the shifting weight.

Suddenly, the rubble pinning his leg lifted up—straight up, just like Matt said. Malcolm’s leg tingled as blood rushed back in, and his ankle throbbed, but he curled his knee up with a sigh of relief.

The next second, Matt thrust upward, grunting as he pushed against the collapsed ceiling. He wasn’t careful, and he didn’t let up.

“Geeze!” Dani yelped, swooping in, trying to help. “Calm down!”

Matt didn’t calm down. Malcolm could _see_ the tendons standing out in his neck. Dani, Gil, and JT scrambled to grab all the rubble Matt was holding up; as soon as they had a grip on it, Matt rolled off Malcolm and out from under the floorboards. He shot to his feet, chest heaving, and took a few staggering steps backwards to stand in a cleared-out-space, swaying slightly.

JT frowned, threw some flooring aside, and edged towards the vigilante. “Hey, man, you okay?”

Matt held out a hand. “Stay back,” he rasped.

Running a hand over his buzzed head, JT did _not_ look impressed by the whole supposedly-scary-vigilante thing. “Look, man—”

“Guys?” Malcolm squeaked, and yeah, he was turning up the _pathetic_ in his tone just a bit. Whatever it took to distract them from Matt. “Little help?”

JT glanced over his shoulder back at Malcolm, and by the time his head turned back towards Matt, Matt had already swung himself up onto the floor above. The next instant, he was gone. JT’s jaw dropped.

Dani tried to shove the remaining rubble away from Malcolm. “Stop ogling and help.”

“But dude just—”

“JT,” Gil said warningly. “I told you, we’re not here to be cops.”

“Yeah,” JT grumbled, lumbering back to Malcolm. “Just friends. I know.”

Malcolm felt a weird loosening in his chest that was possibly unrelated to the fact that he physically had more space in which to expand his lungs.

_Friends._

~

Ten minutes later, Malcolm was outside, gulping in city air as he leaned heavily against Gil’s car a few houses down. Gil, meanwhile, was pacing in front of him, movements jerky. Dani and JT were having a very obvious pretend conversation a few feet away, keeping an eye on the situation but staying out of the metaphorical blast zone.

“Don’t pull that wounded puppy dog look on me,” Gil snapped. “You’re out, you’re not hurt, but now we gotta deal with the fallout.”

“There was evidence in there!” Malcolm protested. “All these papers, stuff Jared was hording. And…and _displaying_ , if only for himself. Our guy has some serious daddy issues and probably a host of attachment problems, possibly a grandiose sense of self and narcissistic traits, but that’s shaped primarily by a desperation for approval from his father figure—”

“Shut up about the profile, Bright! For five seconds! I’m worried about _you_.”

Malcolm held up his hands placatingly. “Gil. I told you, I’m fine.”

“You didn’t just break _into_ a house, you _broke_ the house! What do you think’s gonna happen if the DA decides they want to investigate Jared?”

“They won’t,” Malcolm said easily. “That’d undermine their case, and they know it.” He paused. “Are…are you gonna say anything to them, though?”

Gil glowered. “Not this time.”

Malcolm didn’t miss the qualifier. The implication was grim: screw up again, and Gil would go up the chain. If Malcolm called him on it, he’d probably just say his hands were tied.

Gil sighed. He sounded exhausted and worried at the same time. “C’mon, kid. Breaking into a house? Mixing it up with a vigilante? That’s a little extreme, even for you.”

“Mixing it up?” Malcolm scoffed. “You sound like a Victorian housewife warning her daughter against cavorting with the strange boys from the next town over.”

Gil was, as usual, impossible to distract or deflect. He held Malcolm’s gaze. “You broke into a house.”

Malcolm held up a finger. “Technically, I _entered_ a house. And I didn’t intend to commit a crime, so it’s not even burglary. Just…trespassing, maybe. Technically.”

Gil’s eyebrows shot up. “Were you trapped in there with a legal textbook?”

Malcolm flashed his most innocent smile. “My brain is a veritable library of textbooks, Gil, you know this.”

“My point,” Gil said, eyes narrowing, “is that I’m worried.”

“When aren’t you?”

“I never hired you for this case, and now you’re risking arrest for it!”

“Gil…”

“I’m not trying to force you to take a vacation, Bright. I’ve learned that lesson. I’m just saying, you’re in this a little deep for a case that’s not even yours.”

Malcolm set his jaw. “That girl is innocent.”

“And I can think of any number of ways you could prove that fact which wouldn’t involve committing a crime or associating with a vigilante. So tell me. What’s really going on with you?”

Malcolm tried to smile again, but he felt it slip off his face. Gil’s face was so familiar, down to the concerned crease between his eyebrows. Malcolm dropped his gaze to the ground. “I need a murder to solve. You know this.”

Gil didn’t answer for a long moment. When Malcolm glanced up, he saw him chewing on his lip. Gil sighed. “I’m not a therapist, kid. But it can’t be healthy, the way you’ll do anything to avoid thinking about your—”

“I think about it all the _time_ ,” Malcolm spat. “What do you think I see every night when I try to _sleep?_ ”

“That’s not thinking,” Gil said quietly. “That’s reliving.”

Malcolm forced a short laugh. “Me sitting in a room and going over and over everything I know about my father won’t _help_. It’ll…” He broke off, throat suddenly tight.

Gil took a step closer. His hand settled on Malcolm’s shoulder. “It’ll what?”

Malcolm swallowed, but his voice still sounded thick in his own ears: “It’ll prove I can never escape him.”

The creases of Gil’s forehead deepened. “What does that even mean? Escape him?”

“I don’t _know_ , because I’ve never managed it! But that’s all I want, all right? And right now, the _only way_ I can do that is by solving a case. Helping other people. So…please, Gil, let me just…”

Gil rubbed his hand over his mouth. And Malcolm hated it, hated that he always put Gil in these lose-lose positions. But if Gil just _understood_ how much Malcolm needed this—scratch that. If Gil just _accepted_ how badly Malcolm needed this, maybe then he’d stop trying so hard to protect him.

Besides.

If there was anything Malcolm needed protection from, it wasn't handcuffs.


	6. Friends and Family

Matt

He told himself very sternly that he did not feel bad for eavesdropping. And that he _shouldn’t_ feel bad. Malcolm was not a friend. (Not that someone’s status as a friend was usually enough to keep Matt from eavesdropping on them anyway.) Malcolm knew his identity, and that made him dangerous. Period.

Sure, his heartrate had remained steady while he talked about the reasons why he wouldn’t turn Matt in. But reading heartbeats wasn’t foolproof. (Not that Matt usually slowed down enough to entertain any real doubts about his ability to discern dishonesty.)

No, if Matt was being honest with himself, the main reason he still felt so wary of Malcolm was because of how badly he _wanted_ to trust him. And if Matt had learned anything by now, it was that the things he wanted were often things he could not have.

So he hunkered down, shielded by a water tank, about a block away from the house. Listening as Malcolm exchanged words with the lieutenant. Gil. The more he listened, the more confused he became.

In fairness, his concussion might be mostly at fault for that.

He tried to piece together what he knew of Malcolm: NYPD profiler, invested in justice, needed to solve murders to distract himself from the fact that his father was a notorious serial killer? Also, attached to at least three friends, by Matt’s count. Friends who were apparently ready and willing to drop everything and show up at a not-a-crime-scene if Malcolm needed them.

It felt paradoxical. Matt had to be missing something. Whether Malcolm was keeping things back deliberately or not didn’t matter; Matt simply couldn’t afford trust until he had more information.

Reaching that decision, if only in his head, helped a little. Gave him a sense of stability and direction. Simplified things. He needed to find the true killer and give Angela her freedom back, and he needed to not let himself trust Malcolm Bright. Not yet.

In the meantime, he should go home. Rest. Technically, he should probably find someone to observe him, make sure his brain wasn’t bleeding too badly or something. But the thought of calling Foggy or Karen, waking them up just to babysit him…yeah, no. Not happening. Heaving himself to his feet, he started trudging in the direction of home. The knowledge that he’d be letting himself into an empty apartment was abnormally unappealing. But he didn’t exactly have any other options.

Or so he thought, until he heard the low tolling from Clinton Church. Two tolls: two in the morning. Probably no one was awake. Then again, maybe terrible sleep habits could join sarcasm and unyielding guilt on the list of traits he shared with her.

He pulled off his mask when he stopped outside the orphanage attached to the church. He still wasn’t sure exactly how much the other nuns knew about him, but he didn’t want to draw any more unwanted attention than was warranted by the presence of a black-clad man lurking outside an orphanage. There was subtle movement in Maggie’s room, and he smelled tea. Ginseng. She was…reading? Something with thin, well-worn pages.

Armed with the knowledge that he wouldn’t be pulling her from sleep, he sent a text. A moment later, her window slid open.

Matt took the invitation before he could talk himself out of it. Lifting himself up on the sill, he swung his legs in. Moved too fast; ended up slumped against the side of the sill, listing forward.

She ignored the careful physical boundaries they normally maintained in favor of keeping him from face-planting. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

“No more’n usual.” It didn’t come out as clear as he would’ve hoped. He cleared his throat and gave speaking another shot: “What’re you doing up?”

“Reading. The fourth chapter of Ecclesiastes.”

He scrunched up his face, words and passages jumbling together in his head. “Isn’t that the book that just says everything is meaningless?”

“Mostly.” Her voice was wry, amusement doing a good job of covering her concern. “I’m memorizing the end of the chapter. _Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their toil. For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up._ ”

Matt tilted his head, trying to remember any time that he’d actually known her to have companionship.

Maggie cut him off before he could say anything about it. “But what happened to you?” She ran her hand through his sweaty hair, pushing it up the wrong way, then dropped her hand to his shoulder to wipe off dust and grit.

He fought back a sneeze. “I might’ve gotten stuck under a collapsing building.”

Her snort was a verbal eyeroll. “Another one? Go sit on my bed.”

“I’m…really dirty.”

“Go sit on my bed.”

His sigh sounded a bit too petulant as he obediently pushed himself off the windowsill, gritting his teeth when his stomach swooped and pretending that his momentum was all under control. He tried to turn a stumble into a purposeful stride in the right direction. Her answering sigh informed him that she wasn’t fooled.

She never was.

When he finally found the bed, he sat down only to realize that, without the distraction of dealing with profilers and the NYPD and running around Hell’s Kitchen, the usual concussion-induced nausea was making itself known. He tried to focus on tracking her movement around the attached kitchenette. “Why Ecclesiastes?” he asked, mostly just to prompt the sound of her voice.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t one for monologuing; her answer was to-the-point. “Helps me focus on the things that matter.”

“D’you…have a problem with wasting time on, uh…” He tried to remember. “Building cities? Hoarding wealth?”

“No.” She made several trips back to his side, over time depositing a moist washcloth, a mug of tea, a small first aid kit, and something else that he couldn’t quite identify on the bedside table. “But I find plenty of meaningless business anyway. Always trying to make up for…” She trailed off.

The weight of what went unsaid settled on Matt’s shoulders. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if she thought her greatest sin was leaving him…or having him. He didn’t dare ask.

He jumped at a harsh scraping sound, but she was just pulling a chair across the room. Once seated, she touched her fingers under his chin, tilting his head. “Open your eyes for me.”

He hadn’t realized he’d closed them. He complied.

She picked up one of the things from the table, clicked it on. Matt felt heat on his face. A flashlight. “That’s what I thought,” she said quietly, as if to herself. She handed him the ice pack. “You here to be woken up every few hours, then?”

“S’not that bad.”

Her hum was disbelieving. “Or are you here to get this taken care of?” She reached for his arm, turning it so she could clean out the tiny cut he’d gotten, courtesy of a nail or something.

“No,” he was forced to admit, feeling somehow prickly at the thought of her thinking he’d come crawling over just because he’d scraped his arm, the lingering scent of rust notwithstanding. He wasn’t that desperate for her company, her attention, her care. “For the concussion.”

She gave another hum in response and set to work sterilizing the cut. “You can sleep here,” she offered. “I’ll keep an eye on your brain, if you like.”

He should go home. He should stay. He didn’t know what option to pick. “I’ll have to leave in a few hours. Get ready for work.”

“Then leave in a few hours,” she said calmly, but there was something underneath. She wanted him to stay. She wanted him to _want_ to stay.

He hesitated. Still wasn’t sure if he was making a mistake when he nodded.

~

Malcolm

The precinct was as loud and busy as ever when Malcolm showed up too early the next morning, and no one spared him a glance. Maybe his limp wasn’t as obvious as it felt? Not likely, since he hadn’t exactly gotten around to elevating it like he was supposed to until he was literally strapped into bed, only to realize when he woke up at dawn that he’d kicked away all the pillows he’d been using for support. He was gonna have to get a better setup.

But! That was a problem for his future self.

Despite the apparent lack of concern from the precinct in general, Malcolm instantly became the center of attention when he hobbled into the conference room. Dani, sitting on the edge of the table, looked triumphant as she accepted a twenty dollar bill from JT, who glared at Malcolm. Of course, JT’s glare had nothing on Gil’s.

“ _You_ are supposed to be resting,” the lieutenant said shortly.

“Ankle’s fine,” Malcolm assured him as he made a beeline for the nearest chair, taking note of the pictures stuck up on the whiteboard. A woman kidnapped leaving a bar, if he had to guess. An easy case to crack. “Anyway, see? Resting.”

Gil’s eyes narrowed. “With ice.”

Malcolm rolled up his pant leg to reveal a cold ankle brace.

“Elevated.”

Malcolm scooted the chair closer to the table and propped his ankle on the flat surface. “Satisfied?”

“Not really,” Gil said. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You can’t kick me out now,” Malcolm whined. “I have nowhere else to elevate my ankle.”

“Except in your apartment, which costs twice in rent what I pay on the mortgage on my house?”

Malcolm opted for silence. Not his most brilliant argument, true, but at the same time, it was hard for Gil to come up with a counterargument for it.

Gil sighed, glanced at the other members of the team, and edged closer to Malcolm, lowering his voice. “Kid. It’s for your own good.”

Malcolm held his gaze. “Tell me what your case is.”

“Nothing we need a profiler for.”

“Then what about the Worthington case?” Malcolm demanded.

“That’s _not our case_. Go home, Bright.”

Malcolm tried to stand up dramatically, but his ankle twinged so he settle for slamming his hand on the table. “Jared Worthington is building his identity in reaction to his father!” he announced. (He did not like the _look_ Dani and Gil exchanged at that, so he swept on.) “But now his father’s dead, so he’ll have to find his identity elsewhere. He’s unstable with a newly-discovered love of killing. He’ll strike again!”

The room was quiet. JT was as unhelpful as always, although he looked _slightly_ sympathetic. Possibly. Malcolm might be projecting. Dani was pressing her lips together, clearly signaling discomfort. Discomfort with _what_ , exactly, Malcolm couldn’t tell.

As for Gil, he seemed to study Malcolm for a long moment. Then, suddenly, he jerked his head at Dani. “Powell, get him a cab, will you?”

“Gil,” Malcolm said helplessly.

“On it.” Dani hopped off the table. “C’mon, Bright.”

Malcolm searched her face. There was her mostly-blank cop face, but he thought he caught the slightest hint of concern in the crease between her eyebrows, and maybe even a mischievous scrunch to her nose. Curiosity piqued, he managed to get to his feet (well, foot) and took a few heavy steps towards the door.

“Here.” Her voice was suddenly startlingly close to his ear. “Lean on me.”

“Oh. Uh.” Malcolm let her bear some of his weight. But not much.

She led him out of the room and around a corner, out of sight of the conference room, where she stopped, sneaking a glance at him past her curly hair. “So. Heard you lost a lot of evidence last night.”

“I found it first,” Malcolm pointed out, “which is more than anyone else has managed.”

“Still.” She lowered her voice. “You should know. The DA, they had someone in here. Some intern, I don’t know. But they were asking questions.”

“About?” Malcolm asked. He already knew the answer.

She held his gaze. “About you.”

“ _Good_ ,” Malcolm blurted out. When her eyes shot up, he rushed to clarify: “If they start looking into what I’m doing, maybe they’ll realize they’ve missed the _real_ killer.”

“They’re not asking questions about your _case_ , they’re asking questions about _you!_ ”

Malcolm clenched his jaw. “They already know the worst of it. They know who my father is and they know the FBI thought I was…”

“Insane,” Dani supplied.

“Psychotic,” he snapped. “Or, no, what did they say? _Suffered from psychotic inclinations_.” Not that the idiots at the FBI had known the first thing about psychopathy. “The point is, the DA can ask all the question they want, but it won’t turn up anything everyone doesn’t already know.”

Dani wet her lips. “Maybe they’re not just looking for facts, Bright.”

What else was there? Malcolm’s brain shied away from any possible answers.

“But for what it’s worth…” She leaned in even closer; he smelled her apple-scented shampoo. “I think you’re right about your case. So text me if you need anything, all right?”

With that, she was gone—so fast that Malcolm didn’t even realize she was leaving. He just stood there, staring in her direction, wondering what just happened.

~

Matt

Matt knew it was gonna be a bad day when he walked face-first into the doorframe of his office.

Karen’s footsteps came tumbling out of her office. “Matt?”

“M’fine,” he said quickly, stepping back and brushing off the front of his suit. Not like they’d even had this office long enough for it to accumulate dust, and not like he could distract her from what he was sure was a giant red mark on his forehead. “Just lost track of…space.”

Making a low noise of disbelief, Karen came in to ease his bag off his shoulder, turning him around to face her. “What happened?”

Matt tamped down on the urge to bristle. The three of them were trying so hard to regain some sense of normalcy, but part of Matt almost wished he could go back to the time before all his secrets were laid bare. Things had been, paradoxically, simpler then. He could brush off his injuries with a joke about tripping over a curb, and Foggy or Karen would tell him to get a dog and be more careful, and that would be that.

Now not a day went by without a _Conversation_ happening (spelled in his head with a capital C, sometimes the almost-circle from the Latin alphabet and sometimes two little dots with a dot six in front). These _Conversations_ revolved around whatever injury Matt received most recently, and invariably delved into whatever he’d been up to that caused the injury in the first place, which usually led to an argument about what, if anything, had been necessary.

“Matt!” Karen had her hand on his arm. Not to comfort him but to steady him—Matt realized belatedly that he was leaning against the doorframe.

“Sorry, I’m fine.” He edged out from under her hand. “Just dizzy.” And the queasiness was back, which was just lovely.

From the silence, he was sure she was narrowing her eyes at him. She let his limp excuse hang in the air.

“I…might have a concussion,” Matt elaborated reluctantly.

She treated him to another very pointed silence.

At least she wasn’t interrogating him. Then again, he kind of felt like her silences were a trap, inviting him to say the wrong thing. “I was working on Angela’s case,” he explained eventually. “I think Jared might be the real culprit.”

As expected, Karen latched onto that tidbit and ran with it. “Because of that profiler guy? From the jail?”

“That, and the fact that Jared shot at me last night.”

“Matt!” All of a sudden, she was all over him, hands running over him, hunting for bruises and bandages and broken bones.

“Karen.” He caught her hands and held them firmly. “I’m fine. He didn’t hit me.”

“Why was he shooting at you?”

He tried to edge past her into the office. “Does it matter?”

She blocked him. “Tell me right now or I’ll find the answer myself.”

Which almost certainly meant she’d go running off alone, corner Jared somewhere, and start firing questions at him. “Fine,” Matt muttered. “I broke into his house.”

“You _what?_ Matt, that’s illegal!”

He raised his eyebrows. “What’s another crime on top of what I do every night?”

She pulled out her phone and started texting.

“…What are you doing?” Matt asked nervously.

“Telling Foggy to cut the doughnut run short. I need reinforcements.”

Matt’s head throbbed worse. “Karen…”

She ignored him, stalking ahead of him into his office and perching on his desk with her arms folded across her chest, strategically positioning herself in the perfect place to prevent him from getting any work done today until he’d answered her questions to her satisfaction.

This was gonna be a long morning.

They stood there in tense silence, a temporary cease-fire, until Foggy showed up. Sans doughnuts, which served to make everyone even more upset. Matt wondered if he should’ve taken a personal day.

“Tell us what happened,” Karen commanded.

Her edicts were impossible to disobey, and by now Foggy and Karen were equally adept at picking up on his evasions and half-truths. Preferring that this intervention not last until lunch, Matt decided to deviate vastly from his normal tactics and simply tell the truth as concisely as possible.

“I went to Jared’s house last night,” he explained. “Malcolm Bright apparently had the same idea. We snuck in and Malcolm found evidence, papers up on the wall, but before we could preserve it, the floor collapsed. We were stuck until he called some of his friends from the force to get us out. They left me alone as a…I don’t know, a professional courtesy. That’s it. That’s all that happened.”

All right. He might have left out _one_ fact.

Foggy’s voice was sharp with suspicion. “What aren’t you telling us?”

“Nothing,” Matt tried.

“Something happened,” Karen insisted.

“What, no, we just—”

Karen clapped her hands to her mouth. “He figured out you’re Daredevil.”

Foggy’s temperature spiked. “No way. I don’t care how good he is, no one’s _that_ good.”

“Matt’s not exactly subtle,” Karen snapped back.

“Hey,” Matt said, mildly offended.

“What else would Matt be keeping back?” Karen pushed.

“You’re saying the _only_ thing Matt lies about is being Daredevil?” Foggy retorted.

Matt was quickly realizing that letting them bicker was not going to get him out of this conversation any sooner. Better to end this fast, like ripping off a bandaid. Especially because…well, speak of the devil. “Karen’s right,” he said shortly. “Malcolm figured it out, based on my dad’s favorite kind of soup or something equally absurd. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He pushed past Foggy into the main office and jerked open the front door before Malcolm reached for the handle.

Malcolm took a startled step backwards. “Oh, um…hi.”


	7. Investigation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (okay the chapter title is not the most creative, BUT it could be construed as sort of having multiple applications? Pls believe I'm clever)

Matt

“Um,” Malcolm said. “How did you—”

“I heard you coming,” Matt explained curtly, really not interested in beating around the bush this morning.

“Oh. Heightened senses, right?” Malcolm swayed forward a little, like he was trying to peek over Matt’s shoulder; Matt could sense Foggy and Karen huddling in the lobby behind him. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about, if you have a minute…?”

Matt seized on the excuse to get out from under his coworkers’ scrutiny. “Yeah, actually.” He stepped outside, closing the door firmly behind him, much to Malcolm’s obvious surprise. “Walk with me.” He’d completely forgotten his cane, so he curled his fingers around the soft material of Malcolm’s suit sleeve (Matt wondered how much it cost), causing yet another jolt of surprise.

But Malcolm rolled with it. “Right. And…where are we walking?”

“Park.” Matt wanted relatively fresh air, and Malcolm needed somewhere to sit so he could elevate his still-swollen ankle, and…and, well, Matt was looking for a chance to study Malcolm more, figure him out. “You wanted to ask about my senses?” he prompted, subtly steering them to the left. His phone buzzed in his pocket; he ignored it.

“You said they’re heightened, right?”

“All but one, yeah.”

“ _How_ heightened?”

Matt raised his eyebrows. “What, you want a demonstration?”

Malcolm nodded, completely self-assured.

Matt narrowed his eyes, wondering how much it would take for the profiler to crack. It wasn’t really in his interest to either piss Malcolm off or freak him out, but Matt was morbidly curious. He decided to start with the most invasive—you know, for fun. “Your heartbeat, it’s still elevated from hurrying over here.” He bit back a smirk as Malcolm’s feet stumbled. “It just spiked. You weren’t expecting that.” He slowly tilted his head. “You haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, but you’re not hungry. You’re…you’re used to not eating.” He frowned for a second, distracted. Shook his head, moved on. “Everything about you is expensive. Your clothes, your shampoo…”

“Calling me out,” Malcolm muttered, a forced smile in his voice. An attempt at deflection.

Matt was all too familiar. Again his phone buzzed, and again he ignored it. “You live with a…a bird, I think. But otherwise, you live alone. And…” He suddenly stopped walking, feeling his own heartrate speed up. “You’ve—you’ve been cuffed. Recently. Regularly. Right? Or…” He ran his hand down Malcolm’s arm, skating his fingers over Malcolm’s wrist.

Malcolm jerked away.

“Arrest?” Matt demanded. “Or kidnapping?”

Malcolm’s entire body tensed. “How do you know it’s not something kinky?”

“Because of the way you’re responding right now,” Matt said in a low voice. “You just put your hands in your pockets, but not because you’re embarrassed. You’re not flushing, yet your muscles are tense, and your heartrate’s even faster than before. Malcolm…what happened?”

For a long time, Malcolm held very still. Then he made a quiet sound, almost a scoff, and shook his head. “And people say _I’m_ invasive. For your information, I _have_ been kidnapped. Never arrested, though, but who knows? That could change any day the more I hang out with you. But the, uh…” He shifted his weight. “The restraints, I wear every night. Night terrors. The cuffs keep me from, y’know, getting into my weapons collection. Or throwing myself out a window.”

Matt blinked at the mental whiplash. He wasn’t sure whether he was more disturbed by the admission that Malcolm was wont to break into a _weapons collection_ in his sleep or the fact that Malcolm throwing himself out a window was a possibility. “Uh. I didn’t mean to…”

“Forget it.” Malcolm took a deep, carefully controlled breath. “Besides, you’re just proving I was right to come here. People’s stress responses can tell me a lot about their psychological state, but unless I’m familiar with them or their stress responses are obvious, that’s not information I can always use. If we work together, though…I can interpret what you sense. You read their body, I read their mind.”

Matt blinked again. “Read their mind.”

Malcolm waved his hand. “Kinda. It’s not a science. Well, it _is_ , just not…an exact science. Anyway, what d’you say? Shall we team up?”

“Didn’t we already try that?” Matt raised an eyebrow. “It’s hard to remember the details, because _someone_ collapsed a ceiling on my head.”

Malcolm pointed at him. “Your memory is impeccable, my friend, but you are yet again making my point. That wasn’t an _intentional_ team-up. So this would be…different.”

Matt considered the man in front of him. He couldn’t help feeling certain that if (when) something went wrong and Malcolm got hurt, Matt would be on the hook; he’d have the whole NYPD swooping in to save their precious profiler. Also, there was the serial-killer-father thing, couldn’t forget that.

Matt should say no.

“All right,” he said.

~

Malcolm

He should probably not feel this excited about blatantly defying the DA’s orders (well, technically it was just a memo, but…) but he wasn’t about to feel guilty for it. After all, they were doing _the right thing_. Plus, teaming up with someone like Matt was exciting in and of itself. The guy was basically a superhero.

They decided their best move was to go to the house—not Jared’s house, but his family’s house—and talk to the mother. After all, she’d sent her son at least one package, so clearly she wasn’t as uninvolved in his life as she wanted to appear. Besides, Malcolm was hoping to put Matt’s senses to work to track down Jared, since he would’ve been at the house for the murder if not more recently.

(“I’m not a bloodhound,” Matt had said, indignant. But he hadn’t objected to the plan.)

They took a cab. No sooner were they seated in the back then Matt’s phone started chirping in a mechanical voice: “ _Foggy, Foggy, Foggy_.” Matt looked distinctly displeased.

“Shouldn’t you answer that?” Malcolm suggested.

“My friends just want to yell at me for letting you find out that I’m…you know.” Matt pulled his phone out of his pocket and dictated: “Text Foggy: I’m fine, comma, stop calling me, period.”

Malcolm watched the one-sided exchange with interest. “He seems concerned.”

“Overprotective,” Matt said shortly, and shoved his phone back into his pocket, making it clear that the conversation was over.

“Oh, before I forget,” Malcolm said, pulling an orange lollipop from his own pocket and flourishing the hard candy. “For you.”

Matt’s surprised face was hilarious. “…What?”

“It’s orange. Or is it? I wondered if you could tell if it’s _actually_ orange flavored. It could be peach. Or even mango.”

Matt still looked confused, but he gave a dutiful sniff. “It’s actually orange,” he confirmed, accepting the candy. Seemingly unsure what else to do with it, he stuck it in his pocket.

It was fine; Malcolm was used to people not really appreciating his offerings.

They finally reached a glamorous yet tasteful house. Three stories, lots of large windows, recently painted a silvery-gray. The cab stopped outside; Malcolm offered to pay, Matt tried to argue, Malcolm took advantage of Matt’s need to maintain his cover instead of using the extent of his reflexes to shove cash at the driver. Matt grumpily adjusted his glasses.

“Plan of action?” Malcolm whispered as the cab drove away.

“You make plans?” Matt nudged him towards the door, fingers curling around Malcolm’s arm. “I’m her daughter’s lawyer. We’ll call you my associate for now. She doesn’t need to know you’re NYPD-affiliated.”

That wasn’t a plan, that was just a cover story. Not that any of Malcolm’s plans, if they could be called that, were ever more cerebral. Besides, Malcolm was just as curious to see how Matt naturally handled the situation as he was to see how Violet Worthington responded to being ambushed like this. Malcolm led the way up an elegant cobblestone path, wrinkling his nose a bit at the overpowering smell of lilac. Matt didn’t seem bothered, though, and Malcolm refused to be the weak link, so he held back a sneeze.

They stopped on the front porch, painted pristine white. Malcolm felt a bit guilty just for standing on it—it couldn’t have been painted more than a week ago, which put the home décor job right around the time of the murder. Matt let go of Malcolm’s arm, sliding both hands smoothly into his pockets and adopting a casual yet confident pose that had clearly been crafted with great care.

Malcolm knocked. They waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Malcolm was having the worst luck at actually meeting these people. He shifted his weight, about to turn around, but Matt murmured, “Wait,” and, a second later, the door swung open.

Violet Worthington’s smile was blinding. Her cream-colored pantsuit would’ve made Jessica proud and her auburn hair looked freshly washed. More tellingly, her makeup was expertly applied—including plenty of mascara, none of it smudged or running. No evidence suggesting she’d been crying recently.

She also wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Malcolm made a mental note to mention it to Matt in case the other man’s senses couldn’t catch that detail.

“Hello,” she crooned, deep blue eyes darting between Matt and Malcolm. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“Hi,” Matt said, and launched straight into a speech peppered with legalese and vague references to Angela’s case. Malcolm, meanwhile, studied Violet’s face for her reactions. Her lips pursed with discomfort, but she didn’t look nearly as disturbed as he’d expect for a woman whose husband was just murdered and whose daughter had been arrested for it.

When Matt paused for breath, she jumped in, voice as crisp as her pantsuit: “My daughter is innocent. Angela didn’t do this, she couldn’t have. She loved her father.”

“We agree with you, Mrs. Worthington,” Matt said solemnly, “but we need your help to find out who did. If we don’t give the jury an alternative…I can’t say that a trial is likely to end well.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I understand that you and your firm were the ones who convinced her to go to trial in the first place.”

“Because the plea deals offered by the DA would’ve been even worse,” Matt explained patiently. “The good news is that we have several potential suspects.”

Malcolm tried not to look surprised by that lie.

“They’re not police suspects, of course,” Matt went on, “so we’re really on our own to find any further information about them. Which we’ll need, if we want to convince a jury that they’re responsible for the crimes your daughter was accused of. So tell us. Can you think of anyone who might’ve been behind this?”

Her expression changed to one of…relief? “His gambling friends,” she offered. “They’re all criminals. I can’t fathom why the police didn’t look at them more closely.”

“Anyone in particular?”

She shook her head. “I try to have as little to do as possible with those people. I don’t even know their names.”

“Can you think of anyone _else_ who might’ve been behind this?” Matt urged.

“No,” she said immediately. “No, of course not.”

Matt squeezed Malcolm’s shoulder, but Malcolm didn’t need to hear her heartbeat to know she was lying. “Mrs. Worthington,” Malcolm began, “we know you have a son. Can you think of anything that happened between him and his father that might have triggered—”

“Greg was a good father,” she interrupted coldly. “He loved both Jared and Angela, and they loved him. Jared is just…he’s different.”

“Different?” Malcolm echoed.

Her expression tightened, shock and indignation written all over her face. “Are you saying he’s a _suspect?_ It’s not enough for you to accuse my daughter, now you’re accusing my son as well?”

“We’re not accusing anyone,” Malcolm rushed to assure her. “We’re just asking questions.”

Matt’s voice was equally calming. “Our priority is to find evidence of Angela’s innocence. Speaking with Jared might help with that. Where can we find him?”

“I don’t…” Her eyes skirted away, glancing down the hall before flitting back to dart between Malcolm and Matt. “I don’t know.” (Matt squeezed Malcolm’s arm again.) “You have to understand, he loves his family, but he…he prefers to keep to himself. He hasn’t even lived here since he was sixteen.”

“His choice?” Malcolm asked. “Or your husband’s?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Jared wanted to assert his independence. He’s an oldest child.”

There were far better ways to explain an adult’s behavior than their birth order. “Between Gregory’s work and his hobbies, he must’ve been kept busy,” Malcolm remarked. “Was he around much when Jared was young?”

“Of course,” she said.

(Lie.)

“And there were no other, ah, traumatic events in Jared’s childhood?” Malcolm asked, looking for anything that could hinder Jared’s development of healthy attachment styles.

“His childhood was happy and stable,” she snapped, gripping the doorframe. (Lie.) “Listen—”

“Has Jared been here recently?” Matt fired off, dropping all pretenses of politeness.

“No!” (Lie.) “Listen, if you want to talk about _real_ suspects, you should find Greg’s gambling contacts. I’ve told you everything I can. Have a good day.”

The door slammed.

Matt slowly faced Malcolm, his lips twitching into a smirk. “ _That_ was informative.”

“Only if you take the opposite of everything she said,” Malcolm pointed out.

“I have to do that with most people, honestly.” Shrugging, Matt skated his foot over the porch steps, making a show of finding the edge in case Violet Worthington was still watching them. “Everyone lies.”

Funny; he sounded matter-of-fact, not cynical. Malcolm extended his arm and Matt let him guide him down the steps. “I can’t really get away with lying. You’d understand if you met my mother.”

Matt cocked his head. “You lie about your last name every day.”

The back of Malcolm’s neck itched. “That’s not a lie. I changed it legally.”

To his relief, Matt didn’t question that or probe further. When they stopped at the sidewalk for a cab, he cocked his head at Malcolm. “You hungry?”

What, had his stomach growled or something? Malcolm shook his head. “No, I don’t really eat.”

Matt did a double-take. Sort of. “You—what?”

Malcolm shrugged. “Eating makes me sick. If you’re hungry, though…”

Matt was quiet for a long time. Reading him, or whatever. Malcolm wanted to do something to distract him, but figured that would just make it more obvious that he wanted a distraction. Finally, Matt simply said, “I know a place I think you’ll like. It’s kind of across town, but if you don’t mind taking a cab…”

Whatever delicious food Matt thought he’d found couldn’t possibly be better than the stuff his mother tried to force down his throat at family dinners, but Malcolm resolved to play along. Besides, he didn’t want to draw any more attention to his…issues…than he had to. So he agreed.

He also insisted, again, on paying the fare. Matt looked slightly awkward, but he didn’t try to argue. “So,” Malcolm said once they were seated in the back of the cab. “Your thoughts?”

Leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees, Matt folded his hands. “She knows more than she’s saying. She thinks she knows who the killer is. But…I’m not convinced that _she’s_ convinced that it’s Jared. Her shocked reaction when you brought up Jared as a suspect seemed genuine.”

Malcolm nodded. She might’ve been playing up the intensity of her reaction for her audience, but the emotions themselves had seemed sincere to Malcolm as well. “She’s incredibly aware of her appearance; image is everything in her world.” He nudged Matt’s knee with his own. “Too bad we can see right through her, huh?”

Matt turned his blank face towards Malcolm, staring at him—his version of it, anyway—for a long time. Then he gave a loud snort and a small grin. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“By the way, did you notice she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring?”

Matt tilted his head up, forehead creased. “Come again?”

“Her wedding ring,” Malcolm repeated. “She’d taken it off. Bit early if she’s in mourning, don’t you think?”

“So she and her husband weren’t a happy couple,” Matt mused.

“Maybe…” Malcolm wet his lips. “Maybe we were wrong about Jared. Maybe there’s someone else. After all, jealousy is a powerful motivator.”

Matt raised his eyebrows. “She’s having an affair?”

Malcolm shrugged. “Or something.”

Matt didn’t look sold on that idea. “She didn’t seem like someone who’s now free to pursue an affair. She might’ve had a smooth exterior, but beneath that she was anxious, stressed, subsiding on mostly alcohol from what I could tell.”

“Well, her daughter’s been wrongfully arrested, and she knows it.”

“Fair,” Matt acknowledged. “But I think we need to keep digging. Don’t finish your profile yet.”

That wasn’t how it worked; the profile was never finished until the killer was caught and even then things sometimes came back to haunt him. But he nodded. Not worth arguing technicalities.

“Do you know if the NYPD actually did look into the father’s gambling connections?” Matt asked suddenly.

“No, but I can ask Dani to check. Uh, Detective Powell,” Malcolm clarified, then realized that Matt still probably had no idea who he was talking about. “A detective,” he finished lamely.

Matt’s lips twitched with amusement. “Good, we’ll see what that turns up. Jared’s still our best suspect, but…”

“But we don’t have all the puzzle pieces yet,” Malcolm finished for him as the cab pulled to a stop in an older area of Hell’s Kitchen. Buildings were pressed more tightly together, their colors worn from age. The people crowding the sidewalks weren’t tourists, rushing from one place to another. They simply…belonged where they were. Matt and Malcolm climbed out, and Matt instantly assimilated into the crowd. Malcolm ducked his head, doing his best to blend in too, but wasn’t sure that he succeeded.

“This is it,” Matt announced, stopping in front of a tiny Turkish restaurant that Malcolm absolutely would not have noticed if Matt hadn’t drawn his attention to it. Matt opened the door, letting warm, spice-laden air waft out. “What do you think?”

“I think I’ll give a better review once I’ve actually tasted the food,” Malcolm said reluctantly. But Matt had started smiling, a small thing that Malcolm hadn’t seen before, and now it was impossible to back out.

“You mean you can’t smell that?” Matt tilted his head, yellow light reflecting off the lenses of his sunglasses, and inhaled deeply.

Malcolm shrugged. Lots of things smelled amazing. Didn’t mean he was able to eat any of it. But he didn’t particularly want to explain that as he followed Matt across the crowded dining room, noting the subtle ways Matt angled his body to avoid running into chairs, tables, or people. It occurred to Malcolm, belatedly, that he should probably be pretending to lead him more.

Matt chose a corner booth, the furthest away from the other patrons (and from the tiny speakers playing music Malcolm didn’t recognize). Malcolm sat with his back to the wall, making sure he had a clear view of most of the exits. Some FBI training never wore off.

The menu was a mix of Turkish and English and Malcolm was instantly at a loss.

“Try the Turkish pizza,” Matt suggested quietly. “Lahmacun.”

In no position to argue, Malcolm went with it. They placed their orders, and the food arrived startlingly quickly for a restaurant that wasn’t exactly fast food. Matt’s head bobbed briefly, like he was starting to pray, but then he seemed to remember that Malcolm was watching him, and he just took a hurried bite of his food.

No point in delaying the inevitable. Malcolm raised a slice to his mouth and took a tiny bite, intending to swallow it down as fast as possible. But no, that would be a _crime_. Because this, this was possibly the best thing he’d ever tasted in his life.

“Good?” Matt asked smugly.

“Good,” Malcolm admitted, mouth bursting with feta cheese. “How’d you find this place?”

“When you can taste the soap residue from a server’s hand, you develop a certain appreciation for quality establishments.”

Malcolm felt a stab of sympathy, which he dared not express. Matt _probably_ wouldn’t punch him in public, but he didn’t want to deliberately antagonize him. He changed the subject, asking about Matt’s law practice instead. Matt briefly answered his questions, but seemed much more interested in probing into Malcolm’s profiling work with the NYPD.

Malcolm wasn’t sure how that led to stories about growing up with Ainsley, but somehow it did.

They stayed there for at least half an hour, long enough for the traffic to pick up outside and the sun to start sliding towards the horizon. Malcolm didn’t finish the meal; his stomach wasn’t used to that much food. But he asked for a to-go box, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted one. He also realized, as they paid for their food, that they’d spent the entire meal without talking at all about the case.


	8. Live a Lie

Matt

The hearty scents of the restaurant still clung to his suit as Matt let himself into his apartment that night. Leaning back against the door, he exhaled slowly. Had to just…decompress for a second.

When Malcolm had first shown up at the office, Matt had intended to study him more. Just because Matt could read honesty in someone’s heartbeat didn’t mean trust came easily. But Malcolm had been so honest—painfully so, really—about everything Matt sensed from him, even down to the handcuffs he wore every night, and he’d been so genuinely excited to…how did he say it? _Team up_.

And…and having someone to bounce ideas off during the investigation hadn’t been…the worst thing in the world.

Now, though, Matt felt off-balance. Not unlike how he’d felt after the first day he’d spent with Foggy. He clearly remembered collapsing into bed in their tiny dorm and pulling the covers over his head, pretending to be asleep even though Foggy had wanted to stay up and talk. But Foggy had just been so… _energetic_ and _enthusiastic_ , and Matt, well, had needed time to acclimate to this thing called friendship.

Pulling off his glasses, he dropped them on the hallway table and headed into the kitchen for a beer. But he paused with the refrigerator door open, suddenly sensing his apartment as if for the first time. The bare walls, the sparse cupboards, the silk sheets of his bed, the locked chest under his stairs where he kept his Daredevil supplies. If Malcolm got in here, what would he see? What would he piece together? He’d probably unearth things about Matt that Matt himself didn’t even know.

Matt took a swig of beer. It didn’t matter, because Malcolm had no reason to ever come here.

~

Malcolm

Gabrielle’s office was as friendly as ever. Sitting cross-legged in the chair, Malcolm propped his chin on the giant stuffed elephant in his lap. “I think I made a new friend,” he announced as soon as their session started.

Gabrielle gave the smallest of smiles. Still holding her breath. To be fair, she of all people knew by now that just because Malcolm was excited about something didn’t mean it was a good thing. “You think?” she echoed.

“He’s a lawyer. We’re working on a case together.”

“A lawyer?” Gabrielle asked, probing.

But Malcolm didn’t really want to get sidetracked discussing the ethics of partnering up with a defense attorney. “I, uh…I told him about my father.”

Her eyes widened. “Of your own volition?”

Well, it had been a strategic move to get Matt to agree to let Malcolm call Gil for help, but still. He nodded.

“And how did this friend of yours take it?”

Malcolm was still figuring that out. “I don’t know. He trusts me for what we’re trying to do, and he’s acting like we’re friends.” Malcolm still had half a takeout box in his fridge. “But part of me thinks he’s still waiting for me to slip up.”

“Slip up how?”

Malcolm lowered his eyes. “By proving that I’m my father’s son.”

Gabrielle nodded slowly. “I’m curious. Can you really call him a friend if you feel that he mistrusts you?”

“ _You_ told me I should get more friends,” Malcolm pointed out. “Friends less connected to the NYPD and all.”

She nodded again, but her expression was ever so slightly overly thoughtful. She was pretending to go along with him, pretending to be working through her concerns like she hadn’t already made up her mind about what was wrong with the situation.

Malcolm hated when she did that. But as far as he could tell, she hadn’t figured out that he could see through her.

“Your friend’s a lawyer,” she mused. “What kind of law?”

Ugh. “Defense,” Malcolm said stiltedly.

“What kind of defense?”

 _Ugh._ Malcolm plucked at the elephant’s fake fur. “Criminal.”

“So…when you say you’ve found a friend less connected to the NYPD…”

“He’s on the _other side_ of the entire criminal justice system!” Malcolm protested, even though the hole in his logic was big enough to swallow him.

“And therefore intrinsically tied to the criminal justice system,” Gabrielle concluded with a sigh. “Malcolm, did the two of you meet because of a murder?”

“Not a serial killer,” Malcolm was quick to say. “Just…normal murder.”

Gabrielle pursed her lips. “And you mentioned that you and this friend of yours are…trying to do something together?”

“Yes,” Malcolm said suspiciously, wondering what she was getting at.

“As in, working together?”

“Yeah…”

Gabrielle’s eyebrows pinched together sympathetically. “If you were to make a list of all your friends that you work with, and all your friends that you _don’t_ work with…”

“All my friends are work friends,” Malcolm interrupted, exasperated with a dose of embarrassment underneath. “I get it.”

“We’ve talked about this.”

She wanted him to…find a hobby through which he could meet like-minded individuals. But he met like-minded individuals through the _job_. Was that so bad? Malcolm toyed with the elephant’s fur. He appreciated Gabrielle, he really did. But she didn’t understand just how far from normal he really was.

(It was nice, sometimes. Until it wasn’t.)

After a few minutes of silence between them, Gabrielle seemed to realize that going down the get-better-friends route was a dead-end once again. “Tell me about the case,” she said at last.

Swearing under his breath, Malcolm reluctantly spelled it out.

She arched an eyebrow. “So, a prodigal son murdered his wealthy father for not being there for him enough? Do I have that right?”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “Aren’t you the one always telling me not to make my cases personal?”

“Yes,” she said calmly. “And now I’m reminding you.” She paused, whether to gather her own thoughts or to give him time to really think about she was saying, he couldn’t tell. “Have you thought about taking a break? It sounds like someone else is already on the case, someone whom you trust and who, well, will probably succeed.”

“That’s not the _point_ ,” Malcolm groaned.

“Then what is?”

He had no answer. (That was a lie: he definitely had an answer. Just not one that he wanted to share.)

Gabrielle leaned over her knees, eyes piercing. “You’re always doing something, always working on some case, always needing stimulation. We’ve talked about this.”

“I’m distracting myself from myself,” Malcolm muttered tiredly. “I know.”

“Have you considered that _you_ are not something to be afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid of _me_ , I’m afraid of what’s _happened_ to me.”

She raised an eyebrow.

Malcolm grimaced. “Okay. All right. I’m afraid of me.”

~

The first surprising thing that happened after Malcolm left Gabrielle’s office was a text from Dani: _Trailing your guy. He’s in a poker room._

 _Howdoyouknow?_ Malcolm shot back. Maybe a bit rude, but she wasn’t supposed to be working this case—she’d get in trouble.

 _I have my ways,_ she texted back, followed by a screenshot of an expensive Mercedes-Benz. _Plates say it’s his mom’s car, but I don’t see her anywhere._

 _Can you talk to him?_ A cop showing up while he was taking his mom’s car out to play poker might throw him off, needle him into making a mistake.

 _I’ll make up an excuse,_ Dani promised.

She really was something.

Malcolm was about to ask her for the address so he could join her and watch Jared’s reactions himself when the second surprising thing happened: a text from Matt asking if he was free. Apparently Violet Worthington had called, demanding an appointment. Malcolm wasn’t totally sure if Matt was extending an invitation to Malcolm to keep up the façade that they were colleagues or because Matt actually wanted him there, but Malcolm showed up anyway, letting himself into the office where he was immediately accosted by Matt’s partner.

“You’re the profiler!” Nelson—Foggy, according to Matt’s talking phone—accused, pointing a pen dramatically at Malcolm.

Karen Page scuttled out of her office to stand at Foggy’s side, hackles raised. “How’d you do it?”

Malcolm stared from one to the other, calculating the likelihood that he was about to be attacked with a writing utensil or the mace attached to the key chain Karen was clutching. “Do what?”

“Guys.” That was Matt’s voice, drifting out from his office. “Leave him alone.”

“We have to know what gave you away,” Karen retorted, “to make sure it _doesn’t happen again_.” She said that last part with a scathing glare at Malcolm.

He raised his hands defensively. “I was suspicious as soon as I realized Daredevil was investigating a closed case where no one was in any imminent danger. And then he, uh, kinda couldn’t see a whole wall covered in evidence. That’s all.”

“That’s _all?_ ” Foggy spun on his heel and stormed into Matt’s office, but Malcolm could easily hear his voice as he berated his partner: “You knew Bright was there! Why would you start investigating one of our _legal cases_ in front of a random person?”

“Worse than a random person,” Karen muttered, still glaring at Malcolm. “A profiler.”

“See,” Malcolm said to her, “I feel like you’re acting like this is _my_ fault. Mr. Nelson really has the right idea, though. If you need to be angry at anyone…”

“You’re right,” she bit out, tossing her head as she stalked into Matt’s office where Foggy was going on about how much drama they’d all be spared as soon as Matt figured out how to think _two seconds ahead_.

Malcolm felt a tiny stab of guilt. He crept after them to find Matt leaning back in his office chair, eyes shielded by his dark sunglasses, wrists draped casually over the arms of the chair, and generally doing a great job at looking completely unruffled. Which was clearly riling up his colleagues even more. It was a farce anyway—Malcolm could see the tension in the thin line of Matt’s lips.

Malcolm pitched his voice low enough that he was confident only Matt could hear: “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll just go if it’s causing problems.”

Matt’s head twitched in surprise. Sighing, he stood up. “Don’t worry about it,” he said at a normal volume, interrupting Foggy and Karen’s tirade. “We need you here for the meeting anyway.”

Malcolm blinked, struck by his use of the word _need_ , while Foggy faltered in confusion. “What?”

“Nothing.” Matt ran his hand absently over his desk, apparently concluded that there was nothing there he needed, and slipped neatly past Foggy and Karen, buttoning his suit as he did so. “Did you bring anything for notes?” he asked Malcolm.

“I don’t really take notes,” Malcolm said, stepping out of the way so everyone else could shuffle out of the smaller office. “It’s more of an…intuitive thing, you could say.”

Foggy rolled his eyes. “Of course it is.”

“It’s impressive,” Matt said sharply. He really shouldn’t be able to glare at Foggy, but he somehow managed it even through the sunglasses. “And you have to at least pretend to get along with him if you don’t want Mrs. Worthington to be suspicious.”

“I’m not mad at _him_ ,” Foggy muttered. “I’m mad at _you_.”

That was probably true. Though the partners were clearly able to maintain a working practice now, Malcolm guessed from his research that Nelson and Murdock had gone through more than its fair share of rough patches. Between that and the fact that Foggy—who didn’t carry anything remotely similar to Matt’s constant tension in his body—was obviously used to a calmer, more comfortable life, it made sense that sharing a practice with an active vigilante would keep him at the limits of his stress capacity.

As for Karen, Malcolm still wasn’t sure what was going on with her, although something clearly was. He glanced at her, and they accidentally made eye contact. Her eyes narrowed into slits. Folding her arms across her chest, she vanished into her own office and shut the door.

Matt looked unhappy, but he didn’t try to mitigate anything or go after Karen. He just nudged open a door to the right of Foggy’s office, revealing a conference room, and gestured resignedly for Malcolm to enter.

Reminding himself that the interpersonal conflict festering in this office was _not_ his fault, Malcolm scooted into the room and found a chair. And hey, pretending to be a lawyer for a day sounded fun. He slipped into the conference room, raising his eyebrows at Matt to subtly ask for direction, but Matt didn’t give him anything. Oh. For all they’d talked about how extensive Matt’s senses were, they’d never gotten around to establishing the limits. Which apparently excluded facial expressions. Malcolm was just gonna have to feel his way through this.

A few minutes later, Violet Worthington swept into the office balancing two store-bought coffee cups, looking as outwardly-put-together as usual—with the glaring exception of the tiny smudge of lipstick on her teeth. Had she left the house in the rush and not gotten a chance to look at her reflection in a mirror since? Or had she chewed at her lips and reapplied her makeup more recently without a mirror? Either way, it was more than enough to suggest she was frazzled.

“Thank you so much for meeting me,” she said, her voice simultaneously resonant and stiff. Malcolm recognized the battle she was fighting to keep anyone from seeing how frayed she felt; he’d seen it in Jessica every day of his childhood since they arrested the Surgeon. She set held out the two cups, glancing awkwardly between the three men.

“Thank you,” Foggy said, accepting one of the cups with a genuine smile. Matt, however, was playing blind, a polite smile plastered on, so Malcolm took one of the cups, feeling warmth seeping against his hands. She gave a small nod, like the cup was a symbol of trust. Or something. She seemed to be staring extra long at Malcolm, like she was wanting his reaction.

Probably because she realized he suspected her son. Not great for getting more information out of her. He smiled reassuringly and took a deliberate gulp of the drink. Not coffee, but tea. He tasted strong nutmeg and tried not to choke.

“So, what’s been going on?” Foggy asked, gesturing for her to take a seat. Once she’d settled, the rest of them followed suit. “Did something come up?”

“No, but I need my _life_ back,” she breathed. “I need you to get my daughter back, and I _need_ you to stop harassing my son.”

“Harassing?” Foggy echoed, indignant. “We’d never—”

Whipping out her phone, Violet held it up across the table. Malcolm saw a hastily-taken picture of an irritated-looking Dani.

“My son just sent me this,” Violet hissed.

“Picture of a cop talking to Jared,” Foggy explained for Matt, who nodded shortly. “We don’t know anything about that,” Foggy insisted, and he sounded honest. Because he was. Malcolm kept his mouth firmly shut. “Besides, you got this text at least an hour after you set up an appointment with us, so why don’t you tell us what you really want to talk about?”

Violet set her phone firmly on the table. Her eyes flashed, but the blue of her irises was intensifying with held-back tears. “You haven’t looked into the gambling connections yet, have you.”

“We’re working on that,” Matt said calmly. “In the meantime, speaking of Jared—”

Violet face twisted. “You really think he did this.”

“He has motive, Mrs. Worthington,” Matt cut in, surprising Malcolm with his bluntness. “Motive, and opportunity. We can’t—”

Her phone buzzed loudly against the conference room table. Violet picked it up, glanced at it, and turned a shade whiter. She hastily set it face-down on the table again. “You want to talk about Jared? Talk about the fact that he knew before _any of the rest of us_ what kind of illegal activities my husband was involved in, and he confronted him about it, and _that’s_ the reason Jared moved out, and _that’s_ the reason Jared got cut off from my husband’s wealth!”

Malcolm glanced covertly at Matt, but couldn’t pick up any indication that anything Violet had said was a lie. He swallowed, acutely aware that Matt was listening not only to Violet’s heartbeat but also his own.

“And I…” Violet’s lashes fluttered as she averted her gaze. “I didn’t believe him. We fought. I’m trying to make up for that now, and I will _not_ sit here and be questioned about him!” She stood up. “I came here thinking you would help me. I can see now I was wrong.” She leveled a stare at the three of them, her voice becoming cold. Dangerous. “Leave my son alone, or you will regret it.”

And with that, she swept out of the conference room.

“Wow,” Malcolm said when he heard the front door close. “Are the families of your clients always this rude to you?”

Foggy looked slightly stunned. “They’re usually more appreciative. Even if we get paid in pastries instead of money.”

Malcolm made a face at the cup of tea. “Was this payment or poison?” He took another experimental sip and tried not to gag. The overpowering nutmeg taste had not improved as the drink turned lukewarm. He held out the cup towards Matt. “Try it.”

Matt ignored him. “She set up an appointment and made the trip all the way across town just to tell us to stay away from her son?”

Malcolm shrugged uncomfortably. “She’s his mother. And she feels guilty. And I think…” Malcolm drummed his fingers on the table. “I think at the same time, she really was asking for help.”

Foggy huffed. “If that was her _asking_ , I’d hate to see her demanding.”

“She’s scared,” Malcolm said quietly. “She’s scared, but she won’t tell the police what she’s scared _of_ or ask anyone for help because she even more scared of facing reality. She’ll cling to her fantasy if it kills her.”

Matt’s expression hardened. “Then we’ll just have to catch Jared and set her mind at ease.”

Malcolm took a deep breath. “That’s the thing. I don’t think Jared is the only person she’s afraid of.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEW PSON EPISODE TONIGHT EVERYBODY HOLD ON WE'LL BE OKAY


	9. Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: cliffhanger - I'M SORRY I DIDN'T MEAN TO

Malcolm

It was immediately obvious that Matt, at least, believed him. Which…huh. Was kind of unexpected.

“How scared was she?” Matt asked, voice low and urgent. “Did she seem to think the threat, whatever it is, was imminent?”

Malcolm slipped his hands into his pocket. “She got a text in the middle of the meeting, did you catch that? Whatever that text was, it scared her even more. But she didn’t seem _surprised_. Whoever she’s afraid of, she’s in regular contact with them. So…”

Matt nodded once, like that was good enough for him. “I’ll go to Violet’s house tonight,” he decided. “See what I can find.”

Foggy…well, Foggy looked like he was watching a train wreck. A train wreck that had been going on for several years straight. Like, he was _tired_ of watching the train wreck, but he still couldn’t tear his eyes away. “Just eavesdropping?” he asked hopefully.

Matt nodded again—a bit too quickly. “Just eavesdropping.”

Foggy dropped his face into his hand. “You’re lying, Matt. _Everyone in this room_ knows you’re lying.”

Matt didn’t even try to keep up the charade. “Look, Jared’s staying at his mom’s place. It was obvious when we met her at the house the other day. It’s not just about apprehending him anymore—we have to figure out what other threat we’re working with here.”

“And you wanna do that by committing a felony instead of, y’know, just stalking his social media.”

“Stalking social media’s kind of hard for me.”

“Matt,” Foggy said, unamused.

“Foggy,” Matt said in the exact same tone.

“I’ll do it,” Malcolm offered.

Matt’s head swiveled. “What?”

“I’ll do it,” Malcolm repeated. “I think you’re right, by the way. Plus, someone’s room tells you a lot about them. Even if we don’t find evidence, I’ll still find clues.”

“I don’t believe what I’m hearing,” Foggy mumbled, and pointed at Malcolm. “I thought you were supposed to be sane.”

Malcolm laughed; he’d have to remedy that immediately (before Foggy was disappointed). “What possibly gave you that impression?”

“Statistics,” Foggy shot back. “The sheer statistical improbability of Matt finding someone else just as reckless as he is.”

“Fogs.” Matt took a step closer to his partner, voice softening. “I know…I know you’re still not entirely comfortable with what I do. But tell me you at least know how I effective I am. We need to end this before someone else gets hurt.”

Foggy’s eyes searched Matt’s face. “And what if _you_ get hurt?”

“I’ll walk it off.”

Foggy gave a small, harsh shake of his head. “I’m pretending I didn’t hear that. What if you get caught?”

“You really think I’ll let that happen?”

Foggy’s voice sharpened. “You let Bright here figure out who you are.”

Matt wet his lips. “I know I’m asking a lot here, Foggy. If…if this goes sideways, you’ll be caught up in it too. I _know_. But…we have to get close to Jared.”

Malcolm frowned at the word _asking_ and what it suggested about the precarious balance Matt and Foggy had struck.

Finally, Foggy gave a small sigh which Matt clearly took as agreement. “I’ll let you know what I find,” Matt promised, grabbing his cane and flashing a charming smile and disappearing out the front door.

Malcolm opened his mouth, but Foggy held up a finger and mouthed, _wait_.

Malcolm waited, glancing over his shoulder. He couldn’t see Matt, but….

“Okay,” Foggy said finally. “He’s probably out of earshot. Unless he’s eavesdropping on _us_. Which I wouldn’t put past him.”

“Why would he eavesdrop on us?” Malcolm asked. “You’re his friends, and I’m…”

“You’re ex-FBI,” Karen said, popping suddenly out of her office. She held herself stiffly, clearly uncomfortable just being in the same room as Malcolm. “You were a field agent.”

Malcolm squinted at her. “And how do you know?”

“She’s a PI,” Foggy said, a hint of pride leaking into his voice.

Malcolm took an instinctive step backwards. It was stupid, Matt already knew about the Surgeon, so it wasn’t like there was anything more damning she could dig up. But still. “All right, I was FBI. Why does that matter?”

Foggy and Karen exchanged a glance. “Because,” Foggy said, “that means you know how to handle yourself in…y’know…dangerous situations. Right? And Matt’s never really had backup before, so—”

“He had Frank Castle,” Karen interrupted.

Foggy glared at her. “For the _last time_ , that doesn’t count.”

She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, Malcolm, we were thinking…maybe it’d help if you went with him tonight.”

Malcolm’s eyes widened. “What?” They wanted him there to…take care of Matt? He gestured at Foggy. “Weren’t you saying I’m just as reckless as he is?”

Karen cleared her throat. “Here’s the thing. If you go with Matt, one of three things will happen: you’ll reign him in because you know how to actually follow orders—”

Ha.

“—or you’ll reign him in because he’ll be trying to protect you—”

Given the way Matt had plastered himself over Malcolm when Jared was shooting at them, that seemed more likely.

“—or—” She hesitated, and said the next part in a rush: “Or he’ll try to show off and you’ll both get hurt. _But_. That’s only one possibility out of three.”

Why would Matt want to show off for Malcolm? He didn’t trust him and, according to Gabrielle, they weren’t even friends.

“Just…don’t tell him we sent you,” Foggy cautioned.

“Right,” Malcolm said slowly. “Lie to the guy who can hear heartbeats. Really good idea.”

“He’ll just get pissed off otherwise,” Karen argued, “and then he’ll _definitely_ do something stupid.”

That, unfortunately, definitely matched Malcolm’s profile of Matt. He was mildly impressed. Sometimes he forgot that you didn’t always need years of education in psychology to build a profile. Sometimes you just needed…well, years of caring about each other.

~

Matt

That night, Matt was waiting in the shadows of the fence line, hidden from view of the street. He’d never admit it, but he needed to get his breath back. He’d never had to go so far from Hell’s Kitchen in one night before, and parkour was efficient but not _that_ efficient. He could feel the sweat soaking into his mask before it could roll down his temple.

(Black mask again, fabric that didn’t breathe. It was another stealth mission, which meant the red armor wouldn’t help. Well, unless Jared shot at him again. Maybe Matt was simply getting sentimental for his old black fatigues. Foggy would never let him hear the end of it if he knew.)

Violet’s small mansion of a house wasn’t quiet, not to him. He heard the air blowing through vents, the humming of two refrigerators—one in the house, one in the garage—and the muffled ambient sounds of some noisemaker or something in Violet’s bedroom…and two distinct breathing patterns.

Jared had come home to his mother. And his window was half-open, letting in the cool night air.

Matt rolled his neck, cracking it. There was a tall tree next to Jared’s window, its branches brushing up against the house. If Matt could stomach the cloying scent from the blossoms, he could probably get in easily enough.

But first, he had to deal with an incoming problem.

He didn’t want Malcolm sneaking around looking for him, so Matt didn’t try to hide as he heard the profiler approaching. Instead, he stuck his gloved hand into the open and only drew it back when he heard Malcolm’s heart skip in recognition. The profiler shoved his own hands into his pockets as he ducked off the sidewalk, joining Matt in the shadows.

“What are you doing here?” Matt hissed.

“Backup,” Malcolm said simply.

Matt scoffed quietly. “I don’t need backup. Did Foggy and Karen send you?”

Malcolm took a deep, even breath. “No.”

Matt covered a flare of disappointment with a resigned sigh. He didn’t ask about the lie; he didn’t want to know the details. “Go home, Bright.” And with that, he turned towards the house—fully expecting, for some naïve reason, that Malcolm would actually do as he was told.

Instead, Malcolm took a few hurried steps after him. He only snapped one twig despite his fancy shoes, which was actually impressive, but the sound still made Matt jump. “You remember the whole wall of evidence back at Jared’s house?”

Matt gritted his teeth. Of course he’d bring that up.

“I’m just saying…” Malcolm took a deep breath. “Maybe we should have someone in there who can _actually see_.”

Matt scowled. “Do you even know the first thing about a stealth mission?”

Malcolm shrugged modestly. “Well, I _was_ an FBI field operative.”

Matt blinked.

“Until they fired me.”

“For?” Matt asked.

“…Psychotic inclinations.”

Matt resisted the urge to facepalm. “You’re not coming.”

“I don’t _have_ psychotic inclinations,” Malcolm snapped. “They just thought I did.”

“Yeah?” Matt leaned in over him. “Why? Why would they think that?”

“…I might’ve punched a local sheriff.”

What.

“Because he shot the guy we were trying to catch!” Malcolm protested.

And that…that stumped Matt, for a second. Because punching someone to save a life, or in anger because a life had been needlessly _spent_ …well, Matt couldn’t exactly blame anyone for that. “The guy you were trying to catch,” Matt clarified slowly, “would’ve been, what, another serial killer?”

Malcolm’s head lowered. “He didn’t even know why he was the way that he was. He could’ve…he could’ve gotten help.”

“You think?” Matt asked quietly.

Malcolm shrugged. “I dunno. And now we’ll never know, right?”

Matt curled his fingers into fists at his side. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to…like Malcolm Bright. He definitely didn’t want to let the profiler tag along on a mission.

But. He was running out of reasons to say no.

“Fine,” he bit out, knowing he sounded angrier than he felt but deciding not to bother clarifying right now. Better for Malcolm to think he was on a tight leash here. They couldn’t afford any mistakes that would alert either Jared or his mother, who already knew Nelson and Murdock was suspicious. If they realized Daredevil was investigating the son, that would draw too strong a connection between the vigilante and Matt’s civilian life. It would put not just Matt but also Foggy and Karen at risk.

Malcolm bounced on his toes a little, and Matt didn’t really know what to do with that so he just led the way towards the tree.

Matt paused at the base. “Can you climb?” he asked in a whisper. Maybe he was being unfair, but something about Malcolm’s expensive suits made him doubt it.

“Of course I can climb,” Malcolm whispered back indignantly. “Believe it or not, I did have a childhood.”

“What about your ankle?” It was still inflamed.

“What about your head?” Malcolm shot back.

Whatever. Shrugging, Matt grabbed a low-hanging branch and swung himself up. He hated climbing in nature; grit stuck to his hands and smaller branches, too small to easily sense, snagged at his clothes. Not to mention the smell, which in this case was overpowering enough that he immediately lost the ability to perceive anything more than a few feet away. But the mechanics weren’t so different from climbing up a skeletal fire escape or something, so it wasn’t actually difficult to get himself level with Jared’s window. From there, he grabbed one of his batons from his holster and leaned out, wedging the stick into the crack in the window, pushing the pane aside. It’d be a tight squeeze, but he could make it.

Malcolm had squirreled his way up to the branch just below Matt. “I assumed you were going on the roof, not through the window.”

“No good access points from the roof. This is easier.” Matt edged out onto thinner branches, focused his senses right in front of him to make sure his path was as clear of smaller branches as possible, and jumped.

Malcolm inhaled sharply, but Matt landed on the sill just fine, already slithering through to drop silently down into the room. The only other living thing in this room, on this _floor_ , was Jared—asleep under his covers.

So far, so good. Still, Matt kind of hoped Malcolm would decide on his own to sit this one out.

No such luck.

Malcolm didn’t hesitate. He tight-roped his way onto the thinner branches and leapt across to the window, catching himself on the frame and sliding neatly into the room. He’d made slightly more noise than Matt but had gotten in much quicker. Matt tried not to be annoyed.

Leaving the window open, Matt holstered his baton and let his senses focus on the room. There wasn’t much there, and Jared’s scent was concentrated in only two places: the bed against the wall, and a suitcase stuffed into the closet. He hadn’t been staying here long, and this wasn’t a permanent arrangement. In fact, it seemed like the room was normally used for various…art projects? He smelled paint, and skimming his hand over a desk revealed various drawing utensils, scissors, and stacks of smooth pieces of paper. Photographs, maybe? Picking them up in a gloved hand, he held them out towards Malcolm.

Malcolm drifted deeper into the room, footsteps sure but quiet enough that Jared didn’t rouse. Matt was impressed. Or maybe the room wasn’t that dark? Malcolm aimed his phone at the photos, taking pictures, presumably, although he had the sense to keep the sound and flash off, so Matt couldn’t be sure.

Next, Matt slipped across the room to the bedside table, where a small device buzzed slightly with heat energy. A phone. Matt swiped it up and held this, too, out to Malcolm, who quickly aimed his own phone at the device. After a few seconds, he handed it back, and Matt returned it to its place.

Really, this wasn’t going so badly at all.

And then Malcolm tripped over a shoe.

Matt’s hand darted out to grab him, catching his bicep and holding him steady. He squeezed a little tighter than strictly necessary. A warning—which Malcolm heeded, if his rapid heartbeat was any indication. Malcolm tugged against Matt’s grip.

Matt reluctantly uncurled his fingers from Malcolm’s arm. This was a bad idea. This was a terrible idea.

If Jared woke up, Matt could fight him off, sure, but what if Jared recognized Malcolm and went after him? What if Jared went on the run and they lost him and lost their case? What if there was a fight and Matt had to protect Malcolm and something went wrong and Jared saw under Matt’s mask?

He forced himself to breathe out slowly, calm himself down. No point in panicking; he just needed to make sure there was nothing else useful in the room so they could get out of there. Matt crept towards the suitcase in the closet—

And heard a small noise behind him as Malcolm bumped into something. Matt sensed falling motion: a _lamp_. He lunged, catching the lamp’s column with a gloved hand and righting it.

Malcolm reacted belatedly, slowly extending his arm towards Matt as if moving through molasses. “Why are you—”

“ _Shh!_ ” Matt wanted to yell at him, or shake him, but neither action would help. This was clearly not working. New plan: hope they had what they needed, and get out now. Matt reached for Malcolm, who flinched violently when Matt’s glove touched his sleeve, jerking away from Matt’s touch and cringing into the corner of the room.

Matt blinked under his mask. Malcolm was flushed and sweating, and his heart was _racing_.

This wasn’t just adrenaline.

Something was wrong.

 _What_ was wrong, Matt had no idea. But he couldn’t exactly hang around and find out. He gritted his teeth: this was what he got for teaming up with someone he didn’t know, for trying _trust_ on for size.

Suddenly Malcolm turned in one fluid motion until he was facing Matt. “Dr. Whitly?” He swallowed. _“Dad?”_

Matt’s stomach flipped; he heard Jared stir behind him. He moved in close enough to catch Malcolm’s arm, this time holding firmly.

Malcolm flinched again, full-bodied, and his heart thundered so loud it was almost a surprise Jared couldn’t hear it. “Wait, stop, what—”

Abort mission. Matt slapped a hand over his mouth and propelled him towards the window.

They got all of three feet towards escape when something…changed. Malcolm’s adrenaline spiked, his feet shifted, and Matt choked on the sudden smell of fear. That was all the warning he got before Malcolm whirled around and launched the heel of his palm straight towards Matt’s nose. It was the same move he’d tried when he first met Daredevil and Matt dodged it just as easily, but then Malcolm _yelled_ at him to stay back.

And Jared jolted awake in a panic.

Matt was across the room in a heartbeat; he grabbed Jared’s shoulder while the other man swore and kicked at his sheets, and knocked him back out of consciousness with a swift fist to the temple. Malcolm was slinking towards the door for some reason; Matt spun around and caught his wrist in a vicelike grip. The other man flailed and threw an elbow that Matt narrowly dodged before he managed to twist Malcolm’s arm at the wrist, doubling the profiler over.

“You have one chance,” Matt growled in his ear, “to pull yourself together before I—”

Malcolm wasn’t listening; might not even be capable of it. He tried to spin out of the wristlock and cried out in pain as heat flared through his wrist.

“Jared?” That was Violet’s voice from downstairs. A door opened and Matt heard footsteps moving around.

Time to go, time to go _now_.

Malcolm quit straining against Matt’s hold and Matt foolishly thought that maybe they could still work together to get out of this mess, and Malcolm’s heart was beating so fast that Matt couldn’t exactly use it to anticipate an attack, and he was trying to figure out how much time they had before Violet burst into the room or Jared regained consciousness—and all of that was Matt’s excuse as to why he didn’t realize Malcolm had snatched the pair of scissors from the desk until Malcolm was already plunging the makeshift weapon straight for Matt’s heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys this chapter was such a PROBLEM. Which is 90% because I've been so excited about the next part that I forgot to account for actually getting to it, and 10% because Matt is Stubborn and won't just Accept Help.
> 
> Anyway, have I mentioned how blown away I am by your comments? Like...you guys are the Absolute Best.


	10. Don't Look at Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my readers who haven't seen Prodigal Son, beware some spoilers here.

Matt

Matt twisted to the side, taking the scissors in the outside of his shoulder instead of the heart. It was far from the worst place he’d been stabbed; wasn’t even the worst place he’d been stabbed _with scissors_. As such, he had no problem powering through the pain to shove Malcolm back against the desk. From there, he jabbed his fingers into different pressure points, hitting at least seven in rapid succession before Malcolm’s pain receptors overwhelmed his brain and he dropped like a sack of rocks.

Matt felt a small twinge of guilt that he had no time to entertain. Swinging Malcolm up over his shoulder, he did a quick scan of the room. He was about ninety-eight percent certain that they hadn’t left anything behind. That would have to be good enough.

(Foggy was going to _murder_ him.)

Keeping his balance while getting them both out of the window was a feat in itself. Matt was immensely grateful for Malcolm’s smaller size. He was even more grateful for whichever soul had once decided that this tree needed to be so absurdly close to the window, which now allowed Matt to brace himself against a thicker branch when his feet almost slipped.

But he wasn’t sure any of these branches were thick enough to actually _hold_ their combined weight.

Closing his eyes reflexively, Matt leaned into the tangled branches and shrugged Malcolm off until he could basically drape the profiler on the first branch strong enough to hold him up. At that moment, Violet’s footsteps burst into the room behind him.

Matt leapt into the tree, snapping twigs and landing past Malcolm. He dragged the profiler’s unconscious body closer to the trunk, hoping the remaining unsnapped branches and twigs would give them enough cover. Maybe she’d think the intruders were long gone.

But Violet didn’t seem interested in the open window. Her heartrate jumped and she hurried to Jared’s bed, prodding and pawing at her son.

It was a risk, but Matt decided to move. Which for now mostly meant shoving Malcolm in a vaguely downwards direction. The profiler was going to hate him by the time this was over. Matt couldn’t say he’d blame him.

In Matt’s defense, he _did_ make a point of ducking down past Malcolm to catch him before he literally fell to the ground. It was just…they didn’t have _time_ to be more careful.

Matt did, however, scoop Malcolm up so he could hide them both by pressing against the wall directly underneath the window, holding the position until he heard Violet’s footsteps (and loud, panicked breathing) leave Jared’s room entirely. He couldn’t tell if she was about to burst out of the front door looking for intruders or just call the police, but either way, he couldn’t linger.

Malcolm was starting to feel heavy. Adjusting his grip, Matt made a break for it, running across they yard, not stopping until he returned to the shadows of the fence line where all this started.

(Should’ve insisted on doing this alone.)

From there, Matt did his best to keep away from the warmth of streetlights as he escaped the ritzy neighborhood. It was a relief to stop in the nearest alley and crouch behind a grimy dumpster, sliding Malcolm to the ground. Catching his breath, Matt took inventory: Malcolm’s temperature was still elevated, and his heartrate was speeding up again. He wouldn’t be out for much longer. In the meantime, the smell of Malcolm’s blood spiced the air from a hundred tiny cuts on his face and neck. Courtesy of being shoved unceremoniously through a tree. Matt guiltily plucked a twig from Malcolm’s now-tangled hair.

Yeah, after this, Matt could say goodbye to whatever weird relationship they’d been developing.

He did not let himself feel disappointment over that.

Instead, he debated his options. He could dump Malcolm off at the precinct, but if something was physically wrong with him, that would just be delaying medical care. He could take him to Maggie, but…something deep in Matt recoiled at the mere thought of Malcolm meeting his mother. He could drop Malcolm straight at the hospital, but for all he knew Malcolm wouldn’t remember which secrets he needed to keep. Or he might not feel so willing to lie for Matt once he realized Matt had knocked him unconscious and shoved him out of a tree.

So that pretty much just meant Claire.

Swearing under his breath, Matt fished his burner phone from his pocket. They’d _technically_ reconciled after Matt “came back from the dead,” as she put it (and he honestly didn’t know enough about how he’d survived to argue, even though he cringed every time she said it) and she’d reaffirmed her promise to always be there if he needed her, but he’d made a point of not calling her.

She was second on his speed dial now, second to Maggie.

“What’s bleeding?” she asked as soon as she picked up.

“I’m not,” Matt answered. It was mostly true; the hole from the scissors wasn’t that bad. “But I’ve got a friend who could use some help.”

“And you can’t take him to the hospital because…?”

Matt took a deep breath. “Because he knows who I am. But he’s…really out of it.”

Claire swore softly in Spanish. “Yeah, that could be a problem. What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know?” Matt offered.

“ _Matt._ ”

“He freaked out, Claire. We were on a mission, and he started…I don’t know, seeing things that aren’t there? Hallucinating? He didn’t know who I was. He stabbed me with scissors.”

“You said you weren’t bleeding!”

He ignored that. “I had to knock him out just so I could get us out of there.”

“You _knocked out my patient?_ ”

“So you’ll help us?” Matt asked hopefully.

“ _Dios, dame fuerza_ ,” she muttered in Spanish. “Can you get to me, or should I come to you?”

“Uh…” Matt hated to admit it, but his likelihood of carrying Malcolm all the way back to Claire’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen was…not great.

“I’m coming. Text me where you are.”

And therein lay another problem. Matt didn’t exactly know where they were. He knew Hell’s Kitchen better than he knew his own scars, but this….

“I’m up north,” he offered.

Her answering silence was thundering.

He inhaled deeply. “We’re in an alley. There’s an Italian restaurant to the left. West, actually.” Judging by the distant sounds of the docks by the Hudson. “And, um…a Mexican place. Both of them are high-end. And there’s a…theater, I think? It smells like burnt popcorn and butter. We’re…we’re behind the theater.”

“Okay, I can work with that. One sec.” Her voice and breathing pulled away, presumably as she used her phone to find establishments that matched his descriptions. “All right, I think I’ve got you. Just hang tight. But if anything changes with him, _call an ambulance_ , you hear me?”

Matt hung up.

~

Claire was already pissed at him when she found them in the alley, that much was clear. And expected. _He_ might’ve needed a second to regain his footing as she swept back into his life, smelling of antiseptics and pomegranate lotion, but _she_ was completely focused on the task at hand. Agitation fizzed off her as she hurried to crouch next to Malcolm, feeling his pulse with two fingers. “And you have no idea what caused this? Did he ingest anything?”

Off to the side, Matt shifted his weight, feeling strangely useless. “I don’t know. I don’t follow him around.” Wait. “He…he had some tea.”

Her head snapped up. “Tea,” she echoed impatiently.

“Brought by the woman whose son we’re investigating,” he rushed to clarify. “She…she threatened us, sort of. I didn’t take it seriously, but maybe—”

“What was in the tea?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t have any.” Or else…or else he’d probably have started reacting like Malcolm. Matt’s stomach twisted at the thought of both of them hallucinating at the same time in Jared Worthington’s room. They would’ve been caught for sure, and he would’ve been unmasked, and they’d both end up in _jail_ , and….

Foggy was going to murder Matt twice over.

“Matt!”

Right. Focus. Focus to help Malcolm. Matt forced himself to think. “I, uh, I smelled really strong nutmeg. Cinnamon. Vanilla. Water, probably from her fridge? Plastic from the cup…”

Claire was tapping away at her phone. She stopped suddenly. “Nutmeg.”

“What?”

“Just two teaspoons of nutmeg can cause dizziness, confusion, and hallucinations, not to mention respiratory, cardiovascular, and gastric problems, and even organ failure.” She looked up. “I’m betting that’s our poison.”

“What can we do for him?” Matt demanded.

“Call an _ambulance_.”

Matt closed his eyes. “Okay. Okay.” Maybe Malcolm would just…stay unconscious until he was cogent enough to keep his mouth shut about what they’d been doing, about _who Matt was_. Regardless, Matt couldn’t risk Malcolm’s life to protect his identity. He couldn’t. “Just—just—what’s the cure?”

Her finger swiped back and forth over the phone’s smooth surface. “Treatment is basically supportive.”

“Which means?”

“Which means keeping him calm and monitoring his breathing.”

Matt opened his mouth to say they could do that here just as well as at a hospital, but he knew that wouldn’t fly with Claire. It didn’t fly with his own conscience. Closing his mouth, he nodded once.

“Matt.” That was Claire’s hand on his arm, surprisingly gentle. “It’s gonna be fine.”

“I—I know.”

She saw right through him. She always did, just like when she’d first glimpsed the darkness in his soul and run the opposite direction. “Anything he says will be chalked up to hallucinations and terror. _If_ he says anything.”

That really didn’t help to hear. “I know.” Matt twitched his head towards Malcolm’s body. The profiler’s breathing was changing, becoming ragged. He was waking up. Slipping out from under Claire’s hand, Matt crouched next to Malcolm, ready to…he didn’t know what, exactly. Pin him down in case he got aggressive again? Comfort him?

Malcolm let out a low moan, turning his head.

“Claire,” Matt hissed. “Are his eyes open?”

She leaned in. “Yeah, but…they’re not tracking. No concussion, though. I thought you said you knocked him out?”

“Not with a punch. I didn’t want to give him a head injury on top of…this.” Matt neglected to mention that _he_ still technically had a concussion. He didn’t need her questioning his judgment any more than she usually did.

Before Claire could respond to that, Malcolm let out another moan, but this time his breath hitched halfway through. Then, with no warning that Matt could perceive, Malcolm heaved himself up on his elbows and gasped out Matt’s name.

“I’m sorry,” Matt said without thinking. “I didn’t—” He broke off.

Malcolm’s hand had reached out, catching the side of Matt’s face, and Matt felt a swooping sensation in his stomach because it felt like…it felt like when he’d been a terrified little kid, newly-blinded, mapping out his dad’s face by touch.

Behind him, Claire started speaking rapidly into her phone. She’d called 9-1-1 and Matt hadn’t even noticed, too focused on Malcolm.

“It’s me,” Matt whispered. “It’s just me.”

He thought, for a split second, that maybe Malcolm believed him.

But then Malcolm started thrashing, straining under Matt like he needed to flee, like he needed to _fight_. Which made sense, didn’t it? The man was a criminal profiler; he spent his life hunting down all the evil men he could find. Evil men who’d probably want nothing more than to make Malcolm Bright suffer for it.

It was really no surprise that Malcolm’s dreams would be full of vengeful ghosts.

~

Malcolm

He was on the ground somewhere dirty and he thought for a second that he saw Matt’s face, black mask pulled over his eyes to make his expression impossible to read. But then the scene changed before he could be sure. Or maybe it didn’t; maybe he’d always been here, on his back on the filthy ground, body weighed down by the stiff heaviness of his bulletproof vest. He smelled wood and salt and almost gagged on the overwhelming odor of formaldehyde. He tried not to look at the dead bodies, immaculately cleaned, arranged beside him.

Claude Springer, their murderer, crouched in front of him. The man was scared, but he was _listening_. Malcolm was telling him that he didn’t have to be like this, that he hadn’t been born like this, that someone or something had _made_ him this way. And it was clear from Claude’s face that he’d never thought of that before, that he didn’t understand but he _wanted_ to understand, and Malcolm thought maybe he could save him, maybe they could both get out of this alive when—

The bullet tore through Claude from behind and Malcolm tried to jerk out of the way of the falling body, but something kept him pinned down. Claude collapsed on top of him, warm blood from his exit wound soaking into Malcolm’s bulletproof vest.

Malcolm wanted to rip the protective vest away.

But he couldn’t move. Someone was shaking him, saying his name. Something about an ambulance.

He should’ve called an ambulance—or the police—or _someone_. He’d _seen_ her, the girl in the box, his father’s last victim, stuffed away in the basement. Why hadn’t he called for help? Why hadn’t he done _anything?_

He’d been young, but he’d _known_.

How many other people had he let die?

He was on his back in his bed, and Eve was sitting on the edge, one of her hands trailing over the soft t-shirt covering his chest. Gray-blue eyes sharp as ever, but happy and relaxed. She leaned in close and whispered, “I have something to show you.”

Malcolm tried to sit up, but she kept him flat on the bed with a strength that wasn’t hers, wasn’t right. He felt a flash of fear and tried to swallow it down. He couldn’t let panic attacks take this moment away from them because something was telling him it wouldn’t last—

She raised her other hand and waved someone over, and footsteps were coming closer, but Malcolm kept staring at Eve, not wanting to lose sight of her for a single second. Her eyes narrowed and her hand snaked up to grab his chin, forcibly jerking his head to the side so he could see _her_ , the girl in the box. A woman, drifting closer.

Blood dripped from her fingertips, her sleeves, the ends of her hair, and her voice was thin as the red slit across her throat when she said, “You know what he did to me.”

Malcolm shook his head. “No, no, you _lived_ , you—”

Her lip curled in disgust. “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?”

“You were alive!” He had to get to her, but he couldn’t throw Eve off.

“Does that make you feel _better?_ ” she spat. “Let you sleep at night?”

“Sophie!” He heaved; managed to lift himself about an inch; then Eve slammed him back to the bed with one hand, and the mattress was stiff and unyielding and he didn’t understand—

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Eve’s mouth moved with a deeper voice.

Sophie drifted closer, leaving scarlet footprints trailing in her wake. “How does it feel,” she murmured, “knowing you grew up off the resources of the man who killed us? How does it feel, knowing you lived—and we died?”

Malcolm’s chest clenched. He couldn’t breathe. “You said…you said it wasn’t my fault.”

She shook her head. “Oh, dear Malcolm. I only said what you wanted to hear.”

He couldn’t _breathe._

Sirens screamed. He blinked, saw a flash of a black mask pulling back, and then Gil was running towards him because Malcolm was—Malcolm was on the floor at the precinct, he must’ve had a panic attack again, and his face flushed with embarrassment but Gil didn’t care, Gil was never put off by Malcolm’s eccentricities. Gil dropped to his knees next to Malcolm, his warm hands tilting Malcolm’s face in different directions. (He was leaning on Malcolm’s chest; that must be why Malcolm couldn’t get enough oxygen.)

“Kid,” Gil said softly, so softly that Malcolm couldn’t hear it over the sirens. But Malcolm could tell by the way his lips moved around the familiar word and his mouth quirked up in that small smile that was reserved just for Malcolm.

“Gil,” Malcolm croaked. He reached for him but couldn’t touch him; his hand passed through air. “Gil!”

“Shh, it’s all right. I just…” Gil coughed and hot blood splattered on Malcolm’s face. “Had to say goodbye.”

Malcolm shot upright, shot all the way to his feet; nothing was holding him down anymore and he slammed into—into something, he didn’t know, he didn’t _care_. “Gil, _no!_ ”

Gil crumpled to the ground, curled protectively around the glistening red stain now blossoming across his chest.

Hands locked around Malcolm’s shoulders. “Sir! Sir, you’re safe, sir—”

Malcolm blinked again, fighting to bring his world into focus through tears, through the way everything kept warping, through the tiny lights that sparkled across his vision like he’d stood up to fast. He felt pressure in his head, in his ears, and he listed backwards.

A hundred hands caught him from behind, gripping too tightly. Nails dug into his skin. It hurt more than it should, like it they weren’t nails but _knives_.

He felt chilled breath on the back of his neck as a voice asked, “Do you even know our names?”

Twenty-three names. His father’s twenty-three victims.

They started calling _his_ name, an overlapping chorus of fading voices.

_Malcolm, Malcolm, didn’t you see us?_

_Why didn’t you save us?_

They were in his head—laughing, crying, screaming. Tortured to death while his father took meticulous notes and Malcolm sipped a mug of hot chocolate.

_Malcolm Whitly, why didn’t you save us?_

“Losing it already?” Martin observed.

Someone shoved Malcolm’s body through the door to his father’s cell, keeping his elbows tucked in at his side so he didn’t bash his arm on the frame. They shoved him onto Martin’s bed and strapped him down. Restraints stretched across his ankles, his legs, his chest.

“Thought you’d at least get a kill or two under your belt before you tried convincing people you were insane,” Martin went on conversationally. “No, sorry, not insane, that’s not very PC anymore, is it? _Sick_ , that’s it. You’re just sick, that’s all.”

Martin thrashed. He couldn’t get up. Couldn’t leave. Couldn’t leave Martin’s cell even though he was always supposed to get up and walk out of here, he didn’t _belong_ here, he didn’t—

“But I guess you’ve finally lost it.” Martin sighed, disappointed. So disappointed. “Best not to think about it too much. That’s how you pretend to be normal, isn’t it? You just…don’t think about it.”

Cold nausea twisted in Malcolm’s gut. No, no, all he _did_ was think about it. He wasn’t—he wasn’t hiding from the past, he _wasn’t_ , he’d dedicated his life to _undoing_ his father’s legacy, he wasn’t—

Martin was suddenly right by the bed, patting Malcolm’s shoulder. “You even trick yourself. I wish I could say I’m impressed, but…” He gestured at the room. At the chains on both their wrists. “You didn’t fool anyone else. I expected better of you, son, but I suppose it was only a matter of time before you ended up here.”

His hands reached out; he drew his fingers over Malcolm’s eyelids, closing them.

_It’s what people like you and me deserve._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't go overboard with your nutmeg!


	11. Fallout

Matt

Matt sat in an uncomfortable chair in the hallway outside Malcolm’s hospital room. He’d had to make himself scarce when the ambulance arrived—even if he pulled the mask off, his all-black ensemble would have been too suspicious—but he’d listened long enough to make sure that Malcolm got safely loaded into the vehicle.

Well. Relatively safely.

Then he’d been halfway home to change into something less conspicuous when his feet froze on a rooftop as he realized that Malcolm hadn’t been the only one to drink that tea.

He’d called Foggy, who hadn’t answered, so he’d called Karen next, who hadn’t been happy to be woken up in the middle of the night. But her irritation had switched to fear when Matt explained what was going on, and she’d promised to check on Foggy…and to text Matt with updates.

Matt shouldn’t need updates. He should be there himself. But for reasons he didn’t want to articulate even in the privacy of his own head, it was easier to change clothes, grab his dark glasses and cane, and take a taxi all the way back across town to the hospital where Claire said Malcolm was.

(She hadn’t actually been there when the ambulance picked Malcolm up either. Matt had convinced her to leave, convinced her that it was too dangerous for her to get caught up in this more than she already was. For once, she’d listened.)

Now he sat, knee vibrating, listening to everything happening in Malcolm’s room. They’d sedated him, so there really wasn’t much to listen to. But Matt couldn’t concentrate on anything else.

He didn’t even notice Claire’s footsteps approaching until she was only a few feet away, accompanied by the diluted bitter scent of cheap coffee, about fifty percent water. Lowering herself into the chair next to him, she offered a plastic cup, which he accepted just to give his hands something to do.

“And how’s Foggy?” she asked.

Matt had texted her, too, to make sure there was nothing else Karen needed to know to take care of Foggy. “He’s fine,” Matt said tightly. “Karen got him to Metro General.”

“I feel like such a traitor taking Malcolm anywhere else.”

He heard the smile in her voice, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to respond in kind.

“Still…” Claire made a show of glancing around, letting him hear her hair brushing over her shoulders. “I gotta say, this place is cleaner. Pays to be on the rich side of town, huh?” She paused. Cleared her throat. “So. He knows who you are.”

Matt should probably stop jiggling his knee. He was wasting energy, energy he might need later. “Yeah,” he said.

“How’d that happen?”

“He figured it out.”

She gave a hushed laugh. “You have terrible luck with this, you know.”

It wasn’t funny. Which she should know better than anyone. She’d been kidnapped, _tortured_ , just so human traffickers could try to get to Matt. Just because they’d thought she knew his name.

(The memory was all the more bitter for the fact that she _hadn’t_. That the traffickers had actually _overestimated_ how much of himself Matt had been willing to share with the woman who’d been literally keeping him alive.)

“But you let him stick around,” Claire commented.

“I don’t _let_ him do anything.”

“You let him in.”

“No,” Matt snapped. “He’s just—he’s a profiler, he knows things, but I’m not—we’re not—” He stopped. “It’s not like that,” he said firmly.

“Ah, I see how it is.” Claire’s voice lowered teasingly. “Big, brave Daredevil, scared of a little profiler?”

“Could you _keep it down?_ ” he hissed.

She made another show of glancing around the otherwise empty hallway.

Matt huffed in irritation, and they sat in silence for a while. Then Claire sighed deeply and squeezed his arm. “I’m proud of you, for what it’s worth.”

Guilt curdled in his stomach. “For, what, being a decent human being and taking my friend to the hospital so he doesn’t _die?_ ”

She blew out an exasperated breath. “You know what I mean.”

“I shouldn’t have let him come. And I should’ve known something was wrong about that tea.”

“No one uses that much nutmeg?” she guessed, and he didn’t need sight to know she was rolling her eyes at him. “Matt. No one expects you to be able to smell how many _grams_ of an ingredient are in a drink.”

Ha. Stick would’ve expected just that. But in all the time she’d known him, Claire had never specifically asked how he’d actually learned to use his senses to fight. He might have told her about his so-called mentor. Maybe. At…at the beginning. If she’d asked. But she hadn’t, so she didn’t know, and now he’d rather keep it that way.

“Matt, hey. Look at me.” She used a knuckle under his chin to turn his face towards her.

He made a show of tilting his head down, trying to aim his eyes at her over his sunglasses.

“You’re such an idiot.” The warm affection in her tone belied her accusation. “This wasn’t your fault. At least _pretend_ to believe that, okay?”

And, honestly, it felt so good being here with her, lapping up reassurances that he didn’t deserve, that he was about to agree. But before he could get the words out, he caught a woman’s frenzied voice from two floors down—asking for Malcolm Bright.

“What?” Claire asked when he canted his head.

“Someone’s coming,” he murmured.

She tensed. “Dangerous?”

“I don’t…think so.” The woman was storming her way up to their floor, but she sounded more scared than angry.

“Mrs. Whitly, wait,” one of the nurses was saying, struggling to keep pace. “He’s not awake yet.”

Mrs. _Whitly._ Matt frowned. Malcolm had alluded more than once to his mother. Perhaps that explained her frenzied energy.

“I’m his _emergency contact_ ,” she was saying, her voice unexpectedly deep. Resonant. Almost regal.

No, she wasn’t a threat. Not until Malcolm told her who Matt was, at least. Still, Matt stood up and grabbed his cane. “I’ve gotta go.”

Claire stood too, one hand on his arm. He knew better than to mistake that for anything other than a nurse’s touch; she was simply too used to him being about to fall over from blood loss or something. “Where’s the fire?”

He didn’t bother figuring out how to explain himself. It was just…it didn’t feel right, meeting Malcolm’s mother. Or even being in the same hallway with her. Matt, by virtue of being who he was, would learn too much about her—and by extension, about Malcolm—in an instant. He hadn’t earned the right to any of that knowledge.

Or maybe he was projecting. Maybe Malcolm wouldn’t actually care.

After all, for the son of a serial killer, Malcolm wasn’t nearly as guarded as he probably should be.

The thing was, Matt didn’t _know_ , had no idea where Malcolm’s boundaries actually lay. Matt’s senses were, in truth, far more limited than Malcolm’s profiling abilities. Matt would never quite be able to read Malcolm as well as Malcolm could read him.

It was unnerving, to put it lightly.

And a reason to be grateful that, when Malcolm awoke and realized what a disaster their _team-up_ had been, the profiler would want nothing more to do with him.

“Matt.” Claire hovered in front of him. “You’re making that face.”

“What face?” He tried to subtly edge past her.

“The wounded puppy face.”

He scowled. “Claire.”

She planted her feet in front of him. “Matt. Talk to me.”

Why, so she could just call him a martyr or a lonely little soldier for the hundredth time? “Thank you for helping us, Claire. Really.”

Her scoff was low, laced with hurt and bitterness as she turned slightly away. “Of course,” she muttered under her breath. “That’s all I get.”

He bit his tongue against the reflexive impulse to apologize. Dragging this out wouldn’t help either of them. Besides, he’d gotten what he wanted and he knew she’d leave him alone now—she had too much self-respect to beg him to open up to her. Especially when she knew better than most that there’d be nothing good to see if he did.

He tried to smile. “Take care of yourself.”

She sighed. “I’d tell you the same, but I know better than to waste my breath.”

“Yeah,” he agreed quietly, and swung his cane ahead, tapping his way to the nearest stairwell. The heavy door closed behind him just as Jessica Whitly stepped out into the hall.

Matt took the stairs two at a time, casting his senses to the bustling waiting room below and refusing to let them stray back to the hallway. For once, he wouldn’t allow himself to eavesdrop.

~

Malcolm

He found himself awake, but his eyes were closed. The horrible mix of panic and grief and guilt was draining from his body, taking its sweet time. Normally, he could snap out of the night terrors pretty quick once he was awake, but today…his eyes were still closed. His whole body felt sluggish. And sore. And sick.

His right hand trembled.

Something was beeping steadily next to his ear and it wouldn’t stop. Slowly, he forced his eyes open and blinked. The room was dark, but the sterile white walls seemed to glow with a dim, bluish light. He followed the light source to…an array of monitors next to his bed. That was where the beeping was coming from.

It finally clicked: hospital. He was in a hospital.

Okay, that was…wait, what? Why? He felt fine, relatively speaking. No recent stab wounds or broken bones or anything. He tried to sit up and stopped abruptly when he realized his wrists were locked in thick, padded cuffs (offensively bold blue, looking kind of like pool noodles) tied to the bedrails.

His heart beat faster, as advertised by the stupid, accelerating beeping.

It was fine. He was fine. Everything was fine, _calm down_.

The door opened; a nurse rushed in, a Hispanic man who looked twice Malcolm’s size. Malcolm couldn’t help wondering if he’d been assigned to him because he’d be able to tackle Malcolm if he tried to escape.

“You’re all right, Mr. Bright,” the nurse said, going to the monitors and adjusting something, but Malcolm wasn’t paying any more attention to him because Gil was leaning against the doorway, arms folded across his chest, a worried frown etched across his face.

“Am I under arrest?” Malcolm burst out.

Gil’s eyes moved to the nurse. “No, kid,” he said, but didn’t say anything else until the nurse left the room. Then Gil stepped inside and firmly closed the door. “But you’re in pretty serious trouble.”

Malcolm felt himself wilt (and the little voice that always sounded like Gabrielle’s started rambling in the back of his head about disrupted childhood development and disappointing father figures and whatnot).

Malcolm shook his head to clear it. “What happened?”

“That’s what I’m hoping you can tell me. You were picked up in an _alley_ less than a block from Violet Worthington’s house after some woman called nine-one-one. She was gone when the ambulance got there.”

A…a woman? He didn't remember a woman.

“You’d ingested about fifteen grams of nutmeg, which apparently is enough to mess with almost every system in your body _and_ cause hallucinations.”

Ah. That explained the nightmares. Malcolm braced himself for what was coming next.

And sure enough, Gil moved deeper into the room to pull the thin, scratchy blanket up under Malcolm’s chin. “You doing all right? You’ve got that kicked puppy dog face.”

Malcolm groaned. “Gil…”

“How are you feeling?”

Sore. Lightheaded, still. Dizzy. Sick. He smiled. “One hundred percent.”

Gil scoffed even as he returned the smile with a smaller one of his own. “I wouldn’t have bought that if you’d said seventy.”

“Sixty?” Malcolm offered.

“You look under forty.”

Malcolm waved his hand. “Give or take.”

Gil folded his arms again, and Malcolm noticed the index finger on his right hand tapping restlessly against his sweater. “And these, ah…these hallucinations. Were they anything like your night terrors?”

Malcolm felt a twinge of phantom fear just from the tiptoeing around the memories. The tremor in his hand worsened and he saw Gil glance quickly at it. Malcolm internally cursed the restraints that kept him from stuffing the traitorous hand under his blanket. “They almost got me killed,” he said lightly, “so, yeah, I’d say so.”

Gil gave Malcolm his best _you-know-that’s-not-what-I’m-asking_ look, a look which Malcolm easily ignored.

“When can I get outta here?” Malcolm asked instead. “I have to…” He didn’t know what he had to do, exactly. Except…apologize to Matt for wrecking his mission. He gritted his teeth at the memory of Matt’s reluctance in Violet Worthington’s yard, like he’d _known_ letting Malcolm tag along was a bad idea.

He’d probably only agreed because he’d figured out that Karen and Foggy were the ones who sent Malcolm, and he’d wanted to avoid yet another fight. Like how Dani and JT only agreed to work with Malcolm because Gil made them.

(At least, that was how it all started. He was probably past that with Dani and _maybe_ past that with JT, but he was definitely not past that with Matt and, thanks to last night, never would be.)

“You’re not cleared to leave yet,” Gil said. “And in case you get any ideas about getting an AMA, I’m giving you a friendly warning that the DA wants a word with you once you’re released.”

“Aw, _Gil_ …”

Gil raised his hands—defenselessly and helplessly at the same time. “Nope, I can’t get in the way. Not again. I’ve done all I can, Bright.”

 _Ugh_. Malcolm tried to figure out how he’d explain himself. But that depended on what the DA knew. Or suspected. Which… “What do they want?”

Gil raised his eyebrows. “Malcolm.”

“What?”

“Where were you tonight?”

The grim set to Gil’s mouth made it clear he already knew the answer. Malcolm hung his head.

Gil sighed. “I need to hear you say it.”

“We—I was investigating.” Malcolm bit his lip, hoping Gil hadn’t noticed the slipup. “I—I just thought if I could get close to Jared—”

“Stop.” Gil dragged the chair in the corner of the room closer to the bed and sunk down into it. “I thought getting Dani to help you would at least make sure you didn’t break the law again!”

“You—Dani—what?” Malcolm spluttered. Dani was helping him, yeah; she’d even confronted Jared for him, not that that had turned up anything groundbreaking or accomplished anything other than making Violet mad. But Dani wasn’t doing any of that because of _Gil_.

Gil gave him a tired glare. “You really think I didn’t know she’d end up helping you when I told her to help you out of the precinct?”

Uh, no. Malcom hadn’t even considered the possibility.

Gil dragged his hand over his face. “You’re affiliated with the NYPD, Bright! You have to _think_. You realize your choices can fall back on all of us? Maybe your profile was _wrong_. It’s happened before.”

Malcolm flinched despite himself. Gil wasn’t catty; he’d just said that because it was _true_ , not because he meant to hit a sore spot. Gil probably didn’t even know Malcolm could name every single case where he’d gotten a profile wrong.

(Actually, no. He probably did know. And he’d brought it up anyway just to emphasize how serious this was.)

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm whispered. He didn’t know what else to say.

“So, just to be clear.” Gil’s voice was still hard. “You went in there tonight, right?”

Malcolm was too exhausted to do more than nod. Besides, he wasn’t doing a great job at the whole speaking thing. And a voice somewhere in the back of his head kept reminding him that if he wasn’t careful, he’d end up spilling a secret that wasn’t his to share.

He still felt sick. He tried to figure out whether he was going to throw up.

There was a flash of sympathy in Gil’s eyes, but it was gone the next second. “So, there was a nine-one-one call from Violet Worthington’s house tonight. Apparently, someone broke in.”

Why was he going on about this? He knew what happened, he knew it was Malcolm.

“Kid.”

Malcolm tried to look confident to cover the way he was still quailing inside (and that concerned look in Gil’s eyes just made it worse). “What?”

“There was…there was blood found at the scene.”

Malcolm’s mouth parted; no words came out.

“They checked for DNA.”

“I’m not in the system,” Malcolm blurted out.

Gil raised his eyebrows. “That’s how I know it wasn’t yours. But there was a match.”

 _Matt_. Cold washed over Malcolm. He was gonna throw up. He stared at Gil, wide-eyed, too afraid to say anything.

Gil was studying his face. “We don’t have a name,” he said, and Malcolm had time to wilt in relief before he kept going: “But the DNA’s all through our database. It’s come up on every other perp from violent crimes in Hell’s Kitchen for the last five years or so.”

No, no. No, no, no. Malcolm’s mouth went dry.

Gil leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring intently at Malcolm. “Now, the team’s got some theories. I thought I should run them by you.”

Malcolm started shaking his head. “I don’t know anything. I was—I was _drugged_ , Gil, I don’t—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, didn’t know what he was trying to say.

Did they have to be having this conversation _now?_

“Theory number one,” Gil began, still watching Malcolm carefully. “The blood belongs to Daredevil. Or the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Or whatever the media’s calling him these days.”

“And theory number two?” Malcolm asked weakly.

“Alien,” Gil said.

Malcolm struggled to sit more upright even though it made his head spin. “Well, some in even the most scientific of communities would argue that it’s incredibly arrogant and anthropocentric to assume that we’re the only sentient beings in existence, and New York _has_ been the focal point of a surprising amount of extraterrestrial interference, so, with all that in mind, maybe you should bump that up to theory number one?”

“Kid.” Gil took a deep breath. Bracing himself. “Are you involved with Daredevil?”

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut. If Gil asked, he’d say the room was spinning. It kind of was. “No.”

“Did he tell you to lie for him, or did you decide that for yourself?”

“Gil, I would never—” The words caught in his throat.

“Is he hurting you?”

“No!” Sure, Malcolm was a little more…cut up and bruised and sore than he remembered being before getting hit by magic nutmeg. But there…there was probably a good reason for that, right? Malcolm opened his eyes now that he thought he had his expression under control. “He’s not. I mean—I mean—I’m not working with him, that’s _ridiculous_ , I wouldn’t—” He cut himself off. Forget control. Better to just not say anything.

“How did you even _find_ him?”

“I—didn’t,” Malcolm said helplessly.

The creases in Gil’s forehead deepened. “Look, kid, I’m—” He stopped. Swallowed. “You scared me, all right?”

“What, more than usual?” Malcolm asked weakly.

Gil didn’t smile. “I promised your mother I’d keep you safe.” He paused. “She was in to see you, while you were still unconscious. You know that, right?”

Malcolm dropped his eyes away.

“She cares about you, kid. We— _we_ care about you.” Gil’s hand settled on Malcolm’s arm. “Just don’t throw yourself away for a case, all right?”

Malcolm tried to look reassuring. “Trust me, Gil. I’m fine.”

Gil rubbed at the back of his neck and his eyes turned sad. “Trust _me_ , kid. You’re the opposite.”


	12. Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a longer chapter than normal, which I hope will be understandable when you read it. Our dear boys are Idiots.

Malcolm

The hospital released Malcolm, but Gil didn’t. Gil locked a monitor around his ankle and told Malcolm he was grounded for two days.

“I just need to know you won’t cause any more problems while I fill out the paperwork about your _last_ problem,” Gil had said tersely.

Malcolm hated, _hated_ , when his decisions fell back on Gil. But making Gil do extra paperwork and maybe lie a little to cover for Malcolm was all worth it if Malcolm could bring a killer to justice. Right?

Not that it looked like he’d be bringing anyone to justice any time soon. He kicked moodily at the bottom of his couch.

The closest thing Malcolm could think to compare an ankle monitor to was the cone people put on pets. When he was five, one of his friends had a dog who’d run away from the yard and ended up stung by a bee on her paw. Her owners put a cone around her head to keep her from chewing at it to try to stop the pain. They’d called it her cone of shame. And whenever she was wearing it, the normally cheerful dog’s head drooped.

Malcolm felt exactly like that dog as he trudged around his apartment, dragging his ankle monitor like an anchor.

But he was glad that he hadn’t dismantled it yet when Gil showed up with the sun the morning after his release from the hospital. “DA wants to talk to you today,” he explained. “You wanna meet her at the precinct or her office?”

It was on the tip of Malcolm’s tongue to ask to meet at the precinct where it felt like home turf. But he didn’t want all the other officers watching. Besides, a glimpse at the DA’s office would give him insight into the DA herself. So Malcolm made his choice.

Gil squinted at him. “You sure you’re doing okay, kid?”

“C’mon, Gil,” Malcolm said. “I got a full four hours of sleep last night.”

Two. But two rounded up to four. Pretty much. More importantly, he’d been _prepared_ to not sleep; seen the nightmares coming from miles away. Sleep deprivation didn’t get to you if you knew it was coming, right?

Gil rubbed his hand over his mouth and his salt-and-pepper goatee. “Swear to me something.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t _do_ or _say_ anything stupid.”

“Gil.” Malcolm smiled. “How long have you known me?”

“And that,” Gil muttered, “is what I’m afraid of.” Still, he bent to unlock the ankle monitor with a dark promise that he’d be back after the meeting to put it in place again.

Malcolm firmly chose to interpret it as a weird sign of affection, and then he was off downtown.

~

The DA’s office was glamorous, that was for sure. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Guards. Fake marble, yeah, but _nice_ fake marble. Malcolm shuffled through the metal detectors and took an elevator up to the top floor where a secretary ushered him into Ms. Allen’s office.

She greeted him in a perfectly-tailored silver suit; her dark hair hung in a sharp line just along her jaw and her eyes were already narrowed into slits. “My, Mr. Bright, did we fall out of a tree or something?”

He self-consciously touched his face, feeling all the tiny scabs from all the tiny cuts. He still didn’t know where they’d even come from.

She smirked. “Never mind. It’s good to see you,” she lied. “Take a seat.”

Not wanting to lie back, he said, “Nice view you’ve got.”

She barely glanced over her shoulder at the city buzzing way down below. “Yes, I like to keep an eye on everything happening in my jurisdiction.”

Okay, she _had_ to realize how vaguely evil that sounded, right?

Once he was seated opposite her (in a chair significantly smaller than hers, allowing her to loom over him across her massive mahogany desk), she steepled her fingers together. “Let’s cut to the chase, Mr. Bright. I’m concerned about your involvement in the Worthington case.”

“We can’t always control our concerns, Ms. Allen,” he said kindly. “We _can_ control our reactions to them.”

Her eyes narrowed more (he wouldn’t have thought that was possible). “You think you’re this amazing profiler, don’t you? But, correct me if I’m wrong, didn’t the FBI fire you?”

This again. “Not for my profiles.”

She pinched her lips together like she smelled something bad. “You’re aware that we at the DA’s office have certain connections.”

“I’ll be honest,” Malcolm said cheerfully, “I’m not great with politics. So if you’re going to threaten me, please do it overtly.” Especially because he needed to know for _sure_ if anyone had told her yet about the blood and Matt's DNA. He needed to know for _sure_ if she was already going after Matt.

She exhaled lightly through her nose like she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or scoff. “I’m merely stating facts. We serve people of New York, and it’s our job to keep our community safe. Anyone who gets in our way…well, they’re going to need to be credible.”

“I just told you,” he said through a forced smile. “I wasn’t fired for my—”

“The FBI does extensive background checks, doesn’t it?”

His smile slipped just a bit at the thought of what _his_ background check had turned up. Namely, that his last name was not Bright but Whitly, and everything that went along with that. “…Yeah. I mean, yes.”

“And, of course, the DA’s office sometimes operates in conjunction with the FBI. Would it shock you, then, to know that the DA’s office might be able to get a peek at your files?”

He clenched his jaw. “That’s—that’s personal.”

“That’s the federal government,” she said sweetly. “Now, let’s talk about other relevant connections. Such as…the media.”

No, wait.

She leaned forward, pantsuit rustling. “I certainly understand why you changed your name. The Surgeon was a big story, but that was over twenty years ago. With some time and distance and a new last name…you’ve been able to control your own narrative, haven’t you? Escape the shadow of your father? Tell me, does anyone on your team _actually_ know who you are?”

Yes, they did, although he hadn’t exactly told them by choice. Except for Gil, who’d already known. Who’d _always_ known.

He clenched his fists hard enough that his nails dug into his palms.

She leaned in close. “You said I needed to be overt, Mr. Whitly. Have I made my point?”

Malcolm couldn’t respond, too busy coming to grips with what it would mean for every person to know the truth about him. Every witness he ever interviewed, every suspect he ever profiled, every higher-up who read his reports, every cop he worked alongside, every person who ever heard his name. Bright, Whitly, it wouldn’t even _matter._

No one would ever see _him_ again. They’d only see his father. And his father’s twenty-three victims.

She stood up, smoothing nonexistent creases from her pants. “I’m glad we had this talk. Thanks for your time.”

She’d already skirted around the desk and was halfway to the door behind him when he raised his voice enough to be heard: “Wait! You’d really slander me—”

“I realize you’re not a lawyer,” she said sweetly, “but let me give you a tip: it’s not slander if what I’m saying is the truth.”

Malcolm started shouting. “You’d send an innocent girl to prison _and_ let a murderer walk free just so you won’t have to admit you were _wrong!_ ”

She stopped dead. Turned slowly. Lifted her chin. “I hope, Mr. Whitly, that you never find yourself in my position. Weighing the interests of the few against the many, charged with protecting an entire community while everyone tries to undermine me at every turn, where one mistake could delegitimize the very institution that has been the _bedrock_ of our safety and security for hundreds of years. I hope, Mr. Whitly, that you never need to play so many games of chess at once.” She lowered her voice; it was almost soft, now. “Because you lead with your heart. I respect that. But heart isn’t enough to make a difference. Not in my world. Not on a scale that matters.” She turned back around. “Goodbye, Mr. Whitly.”

She opened the door. A guard was waiting outside.

Standing up, Malcolm gripped his trembling hand with the other and stepped outside. The guard grimly escorted him to the elevators, and as soon as the doors slid shut around him, he tried to catch his breath.

Well. One thing was clear: no matter _what_ evidence he found, the DA would find a way to discount it—and pat herself on the back for it, convinced she was doing the right thing.

Which meant he needed something that was more than just circumstantial. He needed the physical culprit and a direct confession.

Which meant he needed to catch the bad guy.

~

Matt

Matt had taken a shower as soon as he got home, but the smell of the hospital still lingered, clung to his skin. He hated hospitals.

Not only because if he ever ended up as a patient in one, people would have some serious questions about his scars which could possibly end with his arrest.

Not only because people would try to give him drugs that invariably tore his senses out of his already-tenuous control.

Not only because Stick always told him not to go. (He didn’t need help, and they couldn’t have anyone calling child services on them, could they?)

Not only because the smells, the _smells_ , and the sounds of people taking their final breaths made Matt jittery and anxious.

There was all of that, yeah. But mostly, there were the nightmares from when he’d first ended up there, blind and in pain and trying not to throw up from sensory overload, and the memory of his dad dropping everything just to be there. Those were the kinds of things Matt couldn’t really handle reliving unless he’d braced himself for it first.

He shook his head, telling himself yet again to leave the past where it belonged. He had work to do. Including, importantly, stopping for treats on the way to work. That was normally Foggy’s job, but since Foggy had gotten hit with the same poison as Malcolm, Matt offered to take responsibility for the doughnut run.

(That was after he’d failed at convincing Foggy to take another day off. He’d tried over the phone, and Foggy had laughed and asked when the last time was that Matt let Foggy talk _him_ into taking a day off, and then he’d hung up while Matt was still struggling to come up with an answer.)

Matt was in the bakery, enjoying the warmth of the ovens and the heavy scents of dough, vanilla, and sugar while he waited on his order (the usual, plus a second chocolate cruller for Karen for taking care of Foggy, and a second maple glaze for Foggy for…getting poisoned) when his phone dinged. A text from Malcolm, apparently.

Matt briefly closed his eyes. He’d hadn’t forgotten that Malcolm would be waking up too, but he was not looking forward to facing that fact. Still, he gathered his courage and held the phone to his ear so he could hear, _"Can we talk?”_ in a mechanical voice.

Oh, great. Great.

Another ding, another text from Malcolm: _“I need to tell you something.”_

Frankly, Matt would much prefer that they both ignore what happened and forget they’d ever stumbled into each other’s lives at all. But he couldn’t very well deprive Malcolm the chance to berate him if that was what the other man wanted. Matt would simply have to keep his own mouth shut, otherwise he was guaranteed to dig himself even deeper into the metaphorical hole. As every relationship he’d ever had could attest, he was not good at explaining himself and was worse at apologizing.

Matt spoke grimly into his phone: “Text: of course, comma, meet at the office, question mark.” That way Matt could turn right around and throw himself back into his work as soon as this was over. (And it didn’t hurt that the office was his territory, so to speak. Not that this was going to be two-sided enough to be an actual argument such that details like home turf advantage would even be relevant.)

But Malcolm responded: _“Probably shouldn’t,”_ and didn’t elaborate. Instead, he just texted: _“My apartment?”_ followed by an address.

Matt chewed on the inside of his cheek. Stalling. For no good reason; he already knew he was going to agree. Foggy would call it his Catholic masochism or something. “Text: when, question mark.”

_“Now?”_

Matt swore quietly, ignoring the way the elderly lady a few feet away huffed in indignation, and debated. On the one hand, the doughnut run. On the other, he would get absolutely nothing done at the office if he just stewed in his guilt, so it was better for the firm to get the conversation with Malcolm over with.

But…the doughnut run.

Matt set his hands on his hips, drumming his fingers anxiously against his belt. He was a horrible friend and a terrible colleague. It was selfish to give up the doughnut room just to rip the band-aid off his own conscience faster.

But Matt never claimed to be a saint. He left the bakery without the doughnuts, although he sent Karen a text to briefly explain that something had come up and she could get the order if she wanted it. Then he muted his phone in case she called to yell at him or, worse, ask what was wrong.

He tried not to shudder at the cab fare when he was dropped off in front of Malcolm’s place, which was about as expensive as Matt had expected. A corner loft, top floor. Not unlike his own, except for the no doubt exponentially higher rent. He didn’t hear anything unusual inside, so this _probably_ wasn’t an ambush. He knocked.

And Malcolm opened the door wearing a shirt, sweatpants…and an ankle monitor?

~

Malcolm

Matt took a startled step backwards as soon as he’d had time to scan Malcolm with his senses. Like he thought ankle monitors were contagious or something.

“Thanks for coming,” Malcolm said, ignoring that.

“You got arrested?”

“No,” Malcolm said sullenly. “Gil stole the monitor. Said he didn’t trust me to stay out of trouble.”

And he shouldn’t. Malcolm could get out of this monitor in under five minutes if he wanted. But it felt disrespectful to break out of it so soon when Gil was only doing what he thought was best for Malcolm.

Matt swallowed visibly and lowered his head. “Are you all right? After…everything?”

“Sure,” Malcolm said quickly. “Obviously.”

The corner of Matt’s mouth quirked upwards in a sad, knowing half-smile.

Well, Malcolm was definitely not about to share any of the details of either his nightmares or his hallucinations, so "sure" was just gonna have to satisfy. Malcolm was trying _so hard_ not to let himself relive those memories (this wasn’t like with the girl in the box, those weren’t real memories, there was no _mystery_ to solve, he needed to _move on_ ); he’d shoved them into the back of his mind to join the DA's threats, his dad's latest series of voicemails on his phone, and, oh, like four hundred other things Malcolm was busy repressing.

“Anyway, um…” Malcolm stepped aside, holding the door open. “Come in?”

Matt leaned forward slightly on his toes, ever suspicious, before seeming to confirm that the coast was clear. He slipped past Malcolm and went to stand almost in the exact center of the main floor. His head tilted. Malcolm tried not to get creeped out wondering what Matt could pick up by scent alone. “Nice place,” the lawyer said, turning in a slow circle. “And I see I was right about the bird.”

“This is Sunshine,” Malcolm said formally.

Matt took three precise steps towards Sunshine’s cage. “Hello, Sunshine,” he said dutifully. “She smells nice.” Then he frowned, turning the opposite direction. “What’s that?” he asked, nodding towards Malcolm’s weapons cabinet.

“You can’t tell?” Malcolm asked, realizing after the fact that it was maybe a rude thing to ask.

Matt shook his head. “Too much glass. But it smells…old, underneath.”

Malcolm shouldn’t waste time playing at being friends. But he guessed that Matt of all people would appreciate his collection, so…he hurried across the apartment to unlock the cabinet. “Come look.”

“Look, huh?” Matt walked over to join him, and his eyebrows shot up over his glasses. “Is that a katana?”

“Sure is.” And a few short swords, shuriken, blade-heavy throwing knives, and hatchets. To name a few.

Matt’s eyes darted towards Malcolm. “Can I…?” But before Malcolm could answer, he was shaking his head. “No, sorry. What, uh…what did you want to tell me?”

Malcolm reluctantly closed the cabinet door. He’d rather spend an hour or two throwing weapons across the room (Matt would definitely be good at it; Malcolm had seen more than a few clips of news footage showing Daredevil hurling his batons with deadly accuracy) than get on to the part where Matt never trusted him again.

“I—” Malcolm started to say, but stopped. He tried again. “I’m sorry.”

Matt grimaced. “I’ve been stabbed worse.”

“You—what?” Malcolm scanned his body but couldn’t see anything. “I _stabbed_ you?” He’d thought the blood must’ve come from the same place the cuts on Malcolm’s face had come from, whatever that was.

“Scissors,” Matt said, shrugging like it didn’t matter. His hands moved to his hips, fingers tapping restlessly against his belt. “Don’t apologize. Just say what you need to say.”

Oh, did…did he know already, that Malcolm had not only apparently stabbed him but also possibly ended his legal career? Not to mention his life out of jail? Matt’s senses weren’t _that_ good, were they? Then again, he was a lawyer; he was probably at the precinct all the time, and with his hearing…which, yikes, that was _really_ unethical, but Malcolm was definitely not about to be the one to point that out.

He cleared his throat. “I just need you to know, I didn’t tell them it was you.”

Matt’s eyebrows rose. He gave a small shake of his head. “Thank you.”

That was…that was it? Malcolm was starting to feel like he was missing something here. “But, um, but they know I was with you now. Gil does, anyway. The _other_ you, I mean.” Matt frowned deeper at that, but Malcolm plowed ahead without stopping; he needed Matt to realize that he’d at least _tried_ to protect his identity here. “That’s why we couldn’t meet at your office, you know? The last thing they need is a chance to make any more connections between…” He trailed off, because he was about to say something like _between the three of us_ which would sound so stupid that Malcolm would never be able to look at himself in the mirror again.

But Matt’s eyebrows were now pinched together in confusion. “What?”

Oh. Maybe he didn’t know, then. Malcolm’s stomach clenched. He wet his lips. “They—they found blood at the scene.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Your blood. Your…your DNA.”

“I’m not in the system,” Matt blurted out even as his face paled.

“Not by name,” Malcolm mumbled.

Matt’s mouth went slack.

“They still—they still don’t know who you really are, as far as I know. I’m _positive_ Gil doesn’t know, actually, because if he did he’d show up at your office to give you some really inappropriate version of the shovel talk before he—” He broke off, lowering his eyes. Not that Matt could tell—probably.

“Before he arrested me?” Matt finished coldly.

Malcolm glanced up; his mouth moved soundlessly around a _yeah_.

“I thought…” Matt ran his hand through his hair, clenching his jaw. “I thought you called me here to yell at me for knocking you out.”

“That was you?” Malcolm touched the pressure points on his neck that were still sore. “I thought that was…I dunno what I thought that was.”

“I’m sorry,” Matt said stiffly. He meant it, Malcolm was sure—just, _very_ deep down under all his brewing emotions. Fear, anger, _panic_.

Malcolm bit his lip. “ _I’m_ sorry.”

“It’s fine, I get stabbed every night.” The words were automatic, dismissive, effortless, but Matt’s eyes were slowly darkening.

“I’m sorry for dragging the police into this,” Malcolm corrected quietly.

“You didn’t drag them anywhere. They did their own investigation.”

Malcolm took a breath. “Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“I literally cannot look at you in any way, shape, or form, so I really don’t know what you—”

“Stop.” Malcolm risked taking a step closer. “Matt. I know you’re freaking out right now, but—”

Matt’s laugh was quick and shaky. “I’m not _freaking out_ , I just—”

“I swear, I won’t let this fall back on you.”

“Oh, you _swear!_ Great, now I’m not worried at all.”

Malcolm fought to keep the frustration out of his voice. “Trust me, I won’t—”

“Trust,” Matt interrupted, voice suddenly flat.

Malcolm pressed his lips together. Took a step back. “Okay,” he whispered. “Right. Sorry. Never mind.”

There was a flash of something in Matt’s eyes that might’ve been guilt, but it was gone before Malcolm could be sure.

Malcolm changed the subject. “I’ve got pictures from Jared’s room, even though I don’t really remember taking them. There were some photographs on his desk, and I also got his contact list and most recent messages on his phone. I was gonna text it to you, but I thought…”

It was too incriminating.

Matt’s chin jerked in a nod.

“I put it on a flashdrive.” Malcolm pulled it from his pocket and fidgeted with it for a second. “You can…have your partner describe it, I guess.”

“Thanks.” Matt held out his hand; Malcolm dropped the flashdrive into his palm; Matt closed his fingers around it; and that was that.

Malcolm took a deep breath. “You just—you _have_ to catch him. All right?”

Matt slipped the flashdrive and his free hand into his pocket; the other hand kept a tight grip on his cane. “I will.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “I’m sorry I knocked you out. And I’m sorry about your face.”

Malcolm raised his hand automatically to touch the tiny scratches.

“And…” Matt swallowed. “And I’m sorry you got poisoned. I should’ve been able to tell, but I—” He stopped. “Just, sorry.”

And then they just stood there awkwardly. Malcolm had a weirdly visceral flashback to a sad incident in kindergarten when he lost his first best friend ever from a fight over who got to use the red marker. Ms. Mason made them apologize, but it hadn’t made a difference.

No one else was forcing the stilted apologies he and Matt kept sharing, but none of them were making a difference either.

Matt’s shoulders twitched in something like an aborted shrug. “I, uh…I should go.”

Malcolm felt one of his hands curling into a fist. He deliberately unfurled it. “Okay.”

Matt opened his mouth, but all he said was another useless: “Sorry.” He sort of slunk across to the door and opened it just wide enough to slip out.

It was just like when Eve left—except this time Malcolm couldn’t blame it on his father coming between them. Nope, Malcolm had screwed this up all on his own. He let a fist form at his side, but carefully didn’t punch anything or throw anything.

Matt would still hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise these two still have fluff in their futures.


	13. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use the Dogs of Hell as a gang here. It's from the Daredevil universe, for those of you who don't know, but it's not important to know any details about them except that Frank Castle (the Punisher) basically tore them apart a while back, and now I'm imagining that they're rebuilding.
> 
> WARNING CLIFFHANGER SORRY NOT SORRY

Matt

Matt stopped with his fingertips on the handle to their office. Foggy was inside, seated at his desk. But it didn’t sound like he was getting any work done.

Matt’s general feelings of guilt—intensified after the meeting with Malcolm—coalesced into a single rock in his gut. This would be the…what, third time, now, that Foggy had been in the hospital and Matt hadn’t bothered to visit him?

It didn’t matter. What was one more friendship disaster?

(The office smelled like doughnuts, at least. So that was something.)

Matt pushed inside, and he heard Foggy’s breathing change. But Matt concentrated on wordlessly shrugging off his jacket and setting his cane in the corner, waiting for Foggy to come to him.

Which wasn’t fair. Since Matt was the one who’d hurt Foggy, Matt was the one who should go fix things between them. But since Foggy was the one who would be better off without Matt, it seemed more charitable not to force anything between them.

Or…maybe Matt was just too proud. (Or too much of a coward.)

True to form, however, Foggy emerged from his office. Not as surefooted as usual, and he hadn’t eaten anything this morning, but he’d showered, which probably made him feel better.

“Hey,” Foggy said.

Which…Matt had to hand it to Foggy, that was the perfect opening strike. Mild, unassuming. Not giving Matt any hints about on what to say to smooth things over, but pulling Matt into conversation nonetheless. Matt kept his face angled away. “Fogs. Are you…are you okay?”

Foggy scratched at his chin. “Now, why would you even ask that? Oh, because the guy we sent after you drank the same poison I did, and presumably had the same awful experience? All of which are things you definitely know?”

“…Yes?” Matt replied, unsure what the correct response was. Based on Foggy’s answering silence, he assumed he’d gotten it wrong. “I told Karen to text me updates,” he added, hoping that would would…mitigate things. “She told me you were okay. I knew—I knew you were okay.”

The silence stretched out.

Matt shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Look, Foggy, I just…when Malcolm and I were out, and the poison kicked in—”

“It kicked in while you guys were Daredeviling?” Foggy interrupted, tensing up.

“It’s not—that’s not a word, and we weren’t—we were just—” Just breaking into another house. Which Foggy wouldn’t be happy to hear. “I had to knock him out to make sure he didn’t get hurt.”

Foggy’s shoulders slumped in understanding. “Oh.”

“Yeah, it was…” Matt rubbed at the back of his neck. “And I…I tried to apologize for it, but…” His mouth clamped shut, basically of its own volition. He couldn’t tell Foggy about the DNA thing _now_ , not when Foggy was already so angry.

Foggy seemed to misinterpret his silence for guilt instead of standard secret-keeping. “Hey,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry, man.”

Great. Now Matt was making Foggy feel bad. “I should’ve visited you. I just…” Had been feeling the weight of the effects his decisions had on the people he cared about.

Not that he’d ever be able to put it into words.

“I’m sorry,” Matt said. Sick of saying the words. Sick of how true they were.

“Yeah.” Foggy moved in close, in that casual way of his, to clap his hand on Matt’s shoulder. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t come by if you were feeling all guilty and Catholic.”

“I—that’s not—” Matt spluttered.

“You, my friend, are highly predictable.”

Matt took a second to fight through his natural instinct to bristle at being…well, _understood_. Once he was able to appreciate Foggy’s kindness underneath, he leaned into his best friend’s touch and said, “Help me with something?”

“Is it pranking Karen?” Foggy asked lightly. “You know I’m not doing that again after last time.”

Matt cracked a grin. “I still maintain that speaking exclusively in Star Wars quotes for an entire day, regardless of the presence of clients, was _your_ idea, not mine. But no, I just need you to describe what’s on this for me.” He held up Malcolm’s flashdrive.

~

Despite the difficulties of the morning, the rest of the workday passed relatively smoothly. But as soon as Matt stepped out of the office that evening, the events of the morning finally settled on his shoulders and refused to be shrugged away. Matt should go home. He should settle on his couch with his laptop, get a few more hours of work done (there was still Angela Worthington’s legal case to worry about, and they needed a strong defense for her that didn’t depend on finding the real killer) before putting on the mask and going out to patrol the city.

But he wasn’t so sure he’d be able to focus, not when half his mind was replaying his conversation with Malcolm over and over again, and the other half was trying to make sense of what the flashdrive had contained. Maybe Foggy had missed something in his description, because Matt couldn’t get anything of value from it. Which couldn’t be true. They couldn’t have gone through…all that…for nothing.

And yet all they’d gotten were screenshots of contacts (all contacted so infrequently that Matt doubted they even knew Jared that well), a series of missed calls from an unknown number, and pictures of the photographs of a handful of people on the dresser. Now, presumably those people were important to Jared, or else he wouldn’t have bothered saving the pictures, much less taking them with him for his temporary stay at his mother’s house. But that didn’t exactly help much without names to identify them. To be fair, one of them had a neck tattoo that Foggy insisted was the insignia for the Dogs of Hell, but that wasn’t especially uncommon among gang members. Besides, it wasn’t like Matt could track anyone down based on their _picture_.

Malcolm could, Matt remembered, with another pang of guilt. Mixed with a healthy dose of regret and doubt as well. There must’ve been a way to handle that better, but…it was too late now, wasn’t it?

He missed Father Lantom. His wisdom. His dry humor. _He’d_ seen straight through Matt in a way that should’ve been unnerving. Except that instead of running after he glimpsed the darkness in Matt, he’d pushed even closer. He’d offered acceptance. Guidance. Forgiveness.

And if the man really did speak for God…well.

Going to Maggie just wasn’t the same. Everything was still too complicated, too _raw_ , between the two of them. But he wasn’t stupid enough to think he could figure this out on his own. Not with his relationship track record.

And who else was there? Claire, who _should_ understand how dangerous it was when Matt let someone in—but didn’t? Foggy, who’d been so completely betrayed when he finally discovered who Matt really was? Karen, who’d made it perfectly clear just how hard she’d had to work to be able to forgive him for all the lies?

He felt the weight of the flashdrive in his pocket, smelled Malcolm’s lingering scent there. Clenching his jaw, Matt forced his feet to take him in the direction of Clinton Church, which he slipped into just as the Wednesday mass was drawing to a close.

Great. That meant he’d have to take extra steps to avoid the priest, who would surely lecture him for showing up _after_ Mass instead of in time for it.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, some would probably say), Matt had gotten pretty good at avoiding unwanted encounters with the clergy. He ducked down into the dusty basement where he heard Maggie’s heartbeat waiting.

“Matthew.” Her breathing changed—she was surprised, but also glad he was there. “How can I help you?”

Sometimes Matt wondered if it bothered her that he only sought her out specifically when he needed something. If it did, she covered it well. About as well as he covered the fact that it bothered _him_.

And if one good thing could be said to have come from his mess of a life, it was that he needed her help often enough that they ended up talking fairly regularly. And it was especially easy to be honest with her this evening, in a way. After all, he was only copying her mistakes.

He sat on the cot and told her, as succinctly as possible, about the disaster with Malcolm.

“I’m sorry,” she said as soon as he was done. She’d ended up sitting next to him at some point, though she left a safe distance between them.

He aimed his gaze at the floor. “For what?”

“Well,” she said, “you were friends, weren’t you?”

Matt shrugged. “Not really. It was just a job.”

She hummed doubtfully.

“Doesn’t matter anyway,” he muttered.

“But you don’t really think that,” she pointed out.

He sighed. “What makes you say that?”

“You’re here talking to me about it, aren’t you?”

Yeah. What was he hoping to gain, really, by pretending he wasn’t as upset as he was? She’d already seen him at his lowest point, and this wasn’t that. “Mom?” He lifted his head. Wished he could see her face. “Why are we like this?”

She hesitated. “Like what?” she asked carefully.

“We can’t…” He searched for words. “We can’t make it work. Friends. Relationships.”

“Foggy and Karen,” she started to say.

Matt shook his head firmly. “That’s them. Not me. I do everything I can to make it as hard as possible.” The words left a bitter taste on his tongue. But, then, the truth usually was bitter.

Twisting her hands together in her lap, she was quiet for a long moment. “I think,” she said finally, “the root of it is something good.”

He blinked. That was not what he’d expected at all.

“It’s wanting to protect your friends.”

Maybe that was why _she’d_ left, all those years ago, but Matt knew himself better than that. He shook his head. “I’m only protecting myself.”

“Ah,” she said faintly.

“Changed your mind, then?” he asked darkly.

She scoffed. “Not nearly. I think the root is still good, even though that good piece is buried pretty far down.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

“Wisdom,” she said simply, which didn’t explain why she also stiffened, why her head turned slightly away from him. “In a perfect world with perfect people, you wouldn’t have to protect yourself from anyone, and certainly not from the people you care about. But we don’t live in a perfect world.”

“We live in this one,” Matt finished for her.

“Yes. And only a foolish person would go on expecting everyone to be worthy of your trust. Especially…” Here she paused, her tension mounting. “Especially if people have proven, over and over again, that they won’t be there for you.”

Matt inclined his head slightly, acknowledging this. She’d been the first to abandon him, but she’d hardly been the last.

“It started as a good thing, this…caution,” she went on, “but over time, it’s gotten…warped. That’s how it is with most of our sins, I think. They’re good things that get twisted or…or used the wrong way.” She sighed. “And, in your case, it’s probably a good thing that’s gotten mixed with too much fear.”

He rubbed his hand over his mouth. She wasn’t wrong about the fear. He felt like he was choking on it.

“Besides…” Maggie turned her face towards him again, and her arm extended so she could brush her fingers along his cheek, catching on his stubble. “Now is the point where you need to see that some of these people haven’t left. Or if they have, they’ve come back.”

“But they might…” His voice was tight despite how hard he was trying to sound matter-of-fact, unaffected. Detached. “They might leave again.”

“And that,” she murmured, “is the point where you need to join wisdom with faith.”

“In people? Or in God?”

“God is the God of people, isn’t he? Of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob?” She squeezed his hand. “Sometimes I think faith in God and faith in people aren’t so different.”

~

Malcolm

Malcolm was busily dismantling his ankle monitor that night when his phone vibrated. It wasn’t Jessica; he’d already talked to her and sat through a ten-minute lecture followed by pleading that he at least tell her what he’d gotten himself into. No, it was Clairmont Psychiatric. For the third time today.

Even the buzzing managed to seem impatient. Entitled.

Malcolm hit _ignore_ , squashing down the little twinge of guilt he always felt. The man calling him was a serial killer. But the man was also his father. Malcolm had spent more years of his life seeing Martin as the monster that he was, but those precious years when he’d thought his father was just a genius doctor…to his subconscious brain, those childhood years always mattered more.

It would be easier if Martin didn’t sound so genuinely _happy_ whenever Malcolm answered. Or if Malcolm didn’t know what genuine happiness _sounded like_ on him. But his dad’s delighted voice and small chuckles always brought Malcolm back to when he was six or seven years old, and he’d asked a smart question about whatever impromptu anatomy lesson Martin was giving him, like Martin was thrilled to discover he’d spawned such an intelligent kid.

Malcolm shoved his phone angrily into his pocket and went back to cracking open his ankle monitor while making sure to leave it intact enough that Malcolm would be able to put it back on later and Gil would never know the difference. While his hands worked, his brain was busy going over and over all the pictures he’d gotten from Jared’s room again, everything he’d put on the flashdrive for Matt.

Including a picture of an older man, maybe in his early fifties. He was alone, except for whoever had taken the picture, apparently from the passenger seat of a high-end car. Now, the handful of other photos Jared had on his desk were of pairs or groups, usually with him in them. So what made this guy special enough for Jared to take his picture with him to his hideout at his mother’s? (Besides the fact that he was obviously part of a gang: he was almost sickly pale under all his tattoos, including a neck tattoo that Malcolm recognized as belonging to the Dogs of Hell.)

And then there was the picture he’d taken of Jared’s recent contacts. Four missed calls in one day, all from an unsaved number.

Malcolm thought about how desperately Jared had wanted Greg’s approval, and how decisively Greg had refused to give it.

He thought about how quickly Violet had taken off her wedding ring…and how convinced she was that someone else—not Jared—was still a threat.

Then he thought about all those missed calls from his own father.

Gabrielle’s voice was stern in his ear. _Don’t make this case personal, Malcolm._

But he _wasn’t_ , was he? All he was doing was taking the evidence as he saw it and extrapolating it from what he knew of human nature.

And…genetics. Because. Malcolm closed his eyes to remember the details on the reports of the deceased. Gregory Worthington’s eyes had been a pale gray-blue. And Violet’s? Also blue. He looked closer at the pictures on his phone. So how did Jared manage to have brown eyes?

The man alone in the picture also had brown eyes.

Malcolm swallowed. Matt had been adamant that Violet wasn’t having an affair, and maybe she wasn’t _now_. But things could’ve been different in the past. Maybe she’d even slept with this man before she ever married Gregory.

The point was, Jared was never Gregory’s son.

Okay. That didn’t necessarily change too much about the case, did it? Even if it affected Jared’s motive for killing Gregory, that didn’t mean Jared wasn’t just as guilty. It _did_ , however, give Malcolm some new ideas for how to corner Jared and get the confession he needed to get the DA off his back—and secure Angela her freedom.

First things first, though. Violet was obviously terrified of him, and maybe with good reason. Especially if he’d already been harassing her over the phone. Malcolm quickly called Dani.

She picked up on the second ring. “Bright?”

“I need your help,” Malcolm said, wasting no time.

“What is it?” she asked immediately, like she was ready to drop everything and do whatever he needed. Which definitely meant he was misreading her tone.

“Violet Worthington. I think she’s in danger.”

“From what?”

“Her ex-lover. Guy’s with the Dogs of Hell.”

“You got a name?”

“Not yet, just a picture. If I’m right.” He texted her the image.

“I’ll run it through our system,” Dani promised. “You think he’s going after Violet?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. I don’t have enough on him to build a profile. But it’s possible. Likely, even.”

“I’ll find him,” she said grimly.

Malcolm didn’t doubt that she could. She even had experience going undercover, including with gangs. But he couldn’t do that, couldn’t ask that of her. Every time she went undercover only to pull back out again, it weakened her cover. And this mission had to be quick. In and out. “No,” he said. “Take care of Violet. If I’m right and he’s going after her, you might just catch him anyway.”

She sighed, staticky over the phone. “Fine. And you, you’re still grounded, right?”

“Um…” Malcolm hated the way his voice changed when he was lying. It was _obvious_ to his ears, and the longer Dani knew him, the more obvious it would be to her, too. If it wasn’t already. “Yep.”

There was a suspicious silence.

“Thanks, Dani,” he said quickly. “You’re the best.”

Then he hung up before she could ask any questions.

If he took the time to slow down and _think_ , to evaluate his emotions and label them and determine which were worth listening to and which were not, if he followed Gabrielle’s advice for once in his life, maybe he’d rethink this. He’d ask Dani or Gil or even JT for backup. But the thought of dragging someone else into this mess…a mess that was starting to look more and more like his own splintered family, and a mess that had already burned one of his friends…made his stomach knot.

So he did what he did best and didn’t think about it. Instead, he changed into something somewhere between sweatpants with a t-shirt and a suit (jeans, long-sleeved shirt, jacket—that looked _normal_ , right?) and headed out.

If it weren’t for his work with the NYPD, it might’ve been impossible to find the Dogs of Hell. They were keeping a low profile these days after having been decimated a while back by Frank Castle (and maybe Matt, too). Malcolm wandered up to a seedy bar with horrible outside lighting, hoping he didn’t look to conspicuous.

The bouncer stopped him at the door, smokey light drifting out from behind him and loud base thumping through Malcolm’s skull. “What’s your business?” he barked.

Setting his shoulders back and lifting his chin, Malcolm gave his best you-don’t-scare-me smile. “I’m just looking for someone. Jared Worthington. Tell him his, uh…his mom sent me.” Maybe Jared would believe him—he and his mom were obviously fairly close—or maybe mentioning his mother would just piss him off. Either way, at least Malcolm would have his attention.

The bouncer laughed, which seemed like a good sign that at least Malcolm wasn’t about to get punched or something. “The whiny brat?”

“Yeah, I just…need to talk to him, if he’s here.”

The bouncer laughed again. “I’ll let him know. You just stay here.”

There, this wasn’t going so horribly. “Thanks, uh…bro.”

The bouncer paused halfway into the bar to glared over his shoulder. Then he rolled his eyes and left, letting the heavy door swing (creaking) shut behind him.

Malcolm busied himself with studying place more thoroughly. Never knew what observations might be useful later. The place still mostly just looked cheap, which was really saying a lot, if this was where the gangs brought their visitors. Image was everything for socialites like Violet Worthington, and a gang’s rep wasn’t that different.

The door was pushed open again. Malcolm watched carefully as three men emerged. The bouncer, another, and a younger man in the back who was none other than Jared himself.

The kid looked…huh. Scared, maybe?

“Whaddyou want?” the second man growled. Malcolm didn’t recognize him from any of Jared’s pictures. The bouncer, meanwhile, split off, starting to circle around behind Malcolm.

Malcolm raised his hands: a picture of defenselessness, but a position that in reality let him ready to defend himself with a parry or palm strike. Not that he could take all three of these men on his own; if they wanted him dead, he was dead. Facts were facts. “Just to talk,” he said calmly.

“About?” the same man asked stiffly.

Malcolm tried to meet Jared’s eyes. The kid kept averting his gaze. “I need to talk to Jared.”

The second man squinted. “You with the cops?”

The bouncer edged all the way behind Malcolm, out of Malcolm’s view.

Malcolm sighed loudly, trying to cover the way the hair was standing up on the back of his neck and a tiny voice was screaming in his mind for him to get out. But he couldn’t quit now—Angela needed help. _Jared_ needed help. He raised his eyebrows. “Is anyone actually stupid enough to answer that with a yes? But no, I’m not with the cops.” Wasn’t even a lie. Technically. For this case.

Finally, Jared himself spoke, voice nervous. “What do you wanna talk about?”

Malcolm braced himself and said, “Your father.”

Jared made a sharp swiping motion with his hand, and something smashed over Malcolm’s nose and mouth from behind. Cloth.

_Chloroform._

Malcolm held his breath and threw an elbow backwards. He made contact, heard a grunt, but it wasn’t enough. Malcolm kept holding his breath, heart pounding in his ears, but something sliced into his side. It burned so hot it felt _cold_ —he gasped, inhaling chemicals. Blood spilled against his shirt as the knife was jerked back out.

 _Stop the bleeding,_ Gabrielle’s voice said, muted in his mind.

But it was too late for that. His eyelids fluttered closed as one single thought chased itself around and around in his head: _not again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I just wanna say that all your kudos and comments are blowing me away. Y'all are the BEST! <3


	14. Expertise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda a cliffhanger? Does this count as a cliffhanger?

Malcolm

Malcolm was just a kid again, and the odor of chloroform hung in the air, overpowering the smell of his hot cocoa (and maybe the smell of blood underneath that). Wrapping both hands around his mug to soak up the heat, he headed towards the stairs. His bedroom was up there. And the kitchen, so he could put the mug in the sink.

But he thought he heard something. His feet carried him to another basement room instead. It was cold down here. There was a box at the end of the hall, big enough that he could easily crawl inside, and something about it seemed…wrong.

He got closer. The box was cracked open. There was something inside? The rest of the world shrank to this one hallway. Something was definitely inside. Something that looked like—

Skin.

Malcolm’s pulse raced in his ears. He clutched his mug tighter (for security) as he inched closer. Closer and closer and closer until—

The lid burst open. The thing—the person, it was a _living person_ —in the box surged upwards, brown hair in her face, eyes wild. She scrambled, clawing to get out, but she couldn’t. she couldn’t.

Malcolm stumbled backwards. Terrified. He hadn’t wanted to see this. What _was_ this? A nightmare? Why was she—

“You!” She pointed straight at him, dead eyes locking onto him. “You _left_ me here!”

“What? I didn’t—I don’t—”

“You _forgot_ me!”

“No, I tried—I looked—”

“You didn’t care about _any_ of us!”

He opened his mouth to scream, but there was Dad coming up from behind, big arms wrapping around him, and Dad would know what to do, Dad would make everything okay again.

Dad pressed a handkerchief under Malcolm’s nose.

Malcolm woke up in the dark, and he still smelled chloroform.

~

Matt

A visit with Angela Worthington revealed that she recognized everyone in Jared’s pictures except for the older man. None of the people she recognized sounded dangerous or even relevant, mostly just stupid friends from high school.

There was some good news, though: Foggy had been pouring through her journal (much to Angela’s dismay, even though she understood) and he’d found a few entries that seemed to allude to some kind of threat to the family that couldn’t have been Jared. Angela wrote on three different occasions about surprise phone calls leaving her mother pale and shaky, and about how the family would test all the locks in the house afterwards.

It was hardly a smoking gun, but every little clue helped when anticipating a trial. You never knew what other evidence might get excluded or explained away, and you never knew what single fact might be the tipping point for a jury member.

Matt just wished he could be more helpful. Foggy and Karen had eventually agreed that transcribing Angela’s messy handwriting into a format he could read wasn’t worth the effort, not when Foggy and Karen could go over it together and update him with what they found. Matt didn’t even disagree with them; he was just frustrated. At the case. At himself. At…just…life.

(He missed Malcolm, which was stupid. He wasn’t entitled to more friends. It had been nice to have someone around who was actually enthusiastic about Matt’s vigilante activities, and possibly about Matt himself, but Matt had ruined that so efficiently that it was childish to wish things were different.)

Matt shoved his restless thoughts to the back of his mind, knowing full well that they would pop up later, probably at the most inopportune moment possible. But he needed to concentrate. He ran his fingers over his refreshable braille keyboard, going over the statement from Angela’s arresting officer yet again. If they couldn’t present an alternate suspect at trial, maybe he’d be able to discredit the cops. (The upside was that the arresting officer didn’t appear to be from Malcolm’s team. The downside was that Matt should not be _thinking_ about that, let alone _caring_ about that. This was why he really shouldn’t be friends with NYPD consultants.)

Matt finally settled into something like concentration near the end of the workday, which meant he’d be taking work home if he wanted to actually get anything accomplished. But his thoughts were interrupted a second later when heard the office’s main door open as a woman stepped inside.

His fingers stilled. She smelled like the NYPD. Leather, gunsmoke, a hint of drugs from evidence (presumably, though not necessarily), and ink.

“Is Murdock in?” Her voice was curt, but there was a layer of tension underneath.

Karen wasn’t a secretary anymore, but the office arrangement meant she was the first person visitors came across. It seemed she’d gotten used to it by now. “You can go knock and see,” she said coolly.

“Thanks.” The woman’s footsteps took her to Matt’s door. She moved confidently yet quietly and clearly had an athletic build. She also had a handgun in her shoulder holster. Glock 17. Loaded. She’d last fired the weapon sometime yesterday.

She knocked. “NYPD, sir, please open the door.”

Shutting his laptop, Matt took a second to double-check that nothing in his office could possibly be construed as incriminating. Well, he kept spare clubs in a locked desk drawer. The fact that it was locked meant she wasn’t allowed under the fourth amendment to actually access it unless she’d come with a particularized warrant. Then again, it wasn’t exactly unheard of for the NYPD to ignore the fourth amendment in the pursuit of evidence.

Act first, then ask for forgiveness. That was their motto with regards to abuse of police power. And since most of the judges used to be prosecutors, defense attorneys were hard-pressed to win those cases.

He slipped Malcolm’s flashdrive into his pocket, though. That way she wouldn’t be able to plain view it, and she’d need actual probable cause sufficient for an arrest to legally search his pockets without his consent. Mere “reasonable suspicion” wouldn’t be enough. Not that Matt was planning on acting suspicious. No, innocent-yet-charming-blind-man was the way to go here.

He opened the door (but did not step aside to grant her entrance) and smiled warmly. “Evening, Officer…?”

“Detective Powell,” she corrected. No change in body temperature or heartbeat; she wasn’t attracted to him in the least.

“Right, I’ve heard of you.” Not really, except via Malcolm, but it couldn’t hurt to be flattering. “Thank you for everything you do for the city. We can talk in the waiting room, if you want.”

She didn’t budge. “Why not in your office?”

He let his smile become almost sheepish. “Well, Detective, I’m a defense attorney. I’m sure you can see why I’d rather not have an NYPD detective plain-viewing my office.”

Her tension ratcheted up. “You got something to hide?”

“I plead the fifth, naturally,” he said pleasantly. “Are you here about a particular case? I’m afraid I can’t help you if I don’t know what you’re looking for.”

Her boots creaked as she settled slightly into a sturdier stance. “What’s in your office, Murdock?”

Clearly, the charming strategy was not working. Matt would have to workshop it, but for now, he abandoned it and narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me, Detective, but the Supreme Court has held that warrants are required to enter offices as well as homes. Are you saying you have one of those? Tell me, which judge signed it?”

She tapped her foot on the floor.

“Nothing personal, Detective. Just the law.”

“ _Fine_ ,” she bit out. “Whatever, we’ll talk here. I just have a few questions for you anyway. First, when’s the last time you saw—sorry, had contact with—Malcolm Bright?”

What?

Matt’s stomach dropped. “He’s missing?”

“I’m asking the questions, Mr. Murdock.”

Matt’s mouth went dry. Malcolm was missing. Malcolm was missing, and the last two times Matt had seen him, he’d either been in the mask or they’d been talking about the mask. “I, uh…he was here at the office. We were meeting with Violet Worthington.”

He heard a _fwip_ sound as Powell flipped open a notepad, then clicked a pen. “When was this?”

“Three days ago,” Matt answered automatically. “How long has he been missing?”

She ignored him. “And what did the conversation with Mrs. Worthington involve?”

“She didn’t give us much. She was, uh…unhappy…that we were suspicious of her son.” Powell’s breathing changed at that, so Matt hurried on. “I think there’s something she wasn’t telling us. And she said there was someone else involved.”

“What kind of someone else?”

“I don’t know, exactly. But she’s afraid of someone, and not her son.” It might be a valid lead towards finding Malcolm, but there was also the fact that Violet had brought poisoned tea to consider. “You should look into her movements, too.”

Powell jotted a note. “Why, did she do something?”

Matt hesitated. He assumed Powell knew Malcolm had been poisoned, but he had no idea if she knew he’d been poisoned while working the case, and he had no idea if she thought Matt had a legitimate reason to know any of that.

This kind of situation was precisely what Matt was asking for whenever he started mixing his night life with his day life.

“Did she do something?” Powell insisted.

“Client privilege,” Matt finally came up with. It wasn’t, technically—Violet wasn’t his client—but he didn’t expect Powell to know the particulars of attorney ethics. “For what it’s worth, Malcolm also thought something was wrong. Look into the mother. That’s all I can tell you.”

Powell didn’t acknowledge that in the slightest. “And what happened when Mrs. Worthington left?”

“Malcolm also left, and before you ask, no, I don’t know where he went. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Have you been in contact?”

Only via the burner, a fact for which Matt was suddenly deeply thankful in case she managed to get a warrant. He shook his head.

“Just a few more questions, Mr. Murdock.”

Matt wondered if he could get that in writing. She was wasting time—she needed to leave so he could focus on finding Malcolm.

She lifted her chin. “Tell us what you know about Daredevil.”

Really, Matt should have known this was coming, so he wasn’t sure why he took a second to silently panic.

“Mr. Murdock?” she prompted, leaning in slightly.

Nodding quickly, he adjusted his glasses. Both to give himself something to do and to really drive home the point that he was blind, blind, _blind_ —he couldn’t do parkour or beat people into comas, he was _very much blind_. “Ah, yes,” he said, relieved when his voice sounded pretty much normal. “He’s a vigilante, operates exclusively in Hell’s Kitchen—”

“I didn’t ask for his biography,” she cut in, voice flat as a board. “He’s affiliated with your law firm.”

Matt adopted his best professional yet indignant tone. “I’m not sure what you’re insinuating, but any alleged affiliation between my firm and local vigilante activity is entirely coincidental. My firm defends the innocent. We don’t aid and abet criminals.”

Since he’d given her nothing of actual substance, Powell ignored that little speech entirely. “During the Wilson Fisk case, your firm represented a…” She briefly consulted her notebook. “Detective Hoffman.”

Oh. She’d done her research. Matt stood his ground. “Yes?”

“Detective Hoffman, who was caught by Daredevil.”

“That’s…what the detective told us, yes.”

“And Daredevil told him to go to your office, _specifically_.”

“That’s what he told us,” Matt repeated lamely.

She cocked her head. “Mr. Murdock, wasn’t Detective Hoffman a dirty cop?”

“Ah, yes, he was working for Fisk. But his testimony was crucial, so we—”

“So when you say your firm only represents the innocent,” she interrupted, “that’s not entirely true. You make exceptions.” She paused. “If Daredevil says please.”

Matt rallied with a scoff. “If you think that arranging a plea deal for one man in the interest of taking down a criminal empire engaged in everything from human trafficking to bombing to assassinations is evidence that my firm has anything less than this city’s best interests at heart—”

“How long have you been working with Daredevil?” she interrupted sharply.

“We’ve never directly—”

“How long has Malcolm Bright been working with Daredevil?”

“How would _I_ know?” he burst out.

She was quiet for a long time. Staring at him. Matt resisted the urge to shift his weight or otherwise fidget.

Finally, she snapped her notebook closed. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Murdock. I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but—”

“If I hear from him, I’ll let you know immediately,” Matt lied.

“Good. You have a good day.”

Matt held perfectly still as she left, trying to ignore the way his heart was pounding. He listened to her pause outside the office, either because she’d thought of a last-minute question she wanted to come back and ask or because she was hoping someone in the office would spontaneously start screaming a confession. But after a few minutes, she gave up and walked off.

At which point Matt snatched the flashdrive out of his pocket, held it in front of his face, and inhaled deeply. He smelled his fabric softener mixed with his and Foggy’s scents, but beneath that he caught a whiff of Malcolm’s distinct scent. It’d have to be good enough.

As a rule, Matt hated tracking by scent. Foggy liked to quote articles at him about bloodhounds tracking scents that were several days old, but Matt (as he’d insisted far more often than should really be necessary) was not a bloodhound, and only had a few hours to operate in before the scent dissipated in the city. And, with New York smelling like New York, it inevitably made him nauseated in a way that tracking by sound rarely did.

Of course, having a solid starting point helped. Matt _could_ start at Malcolm’s apartment, but he had a suspicion that Malcolm had gone looking for trouble—not that trouble had gone looking for him. Knowing Malcolm, that seemed more likely.

Matt returned the flashdrive to his pocket and got to work.

~

Malcolm

Malcolm’s head spun. So did the room. His side throbbed. Sucking in deep, meditative breaths in through his mouth, breaths that stank of blood and chloroform, he fought the urge to vomit.

 _Focus_ , Gabrielle’s voice told him. _Where are you?_

Looking up through his sweaty hair falling in his face, he forced his brain to make sense of what he was seeing. Gritty floor, cool (and blood-slicked) underneath him. Dim lighting. No windows. Voices above him, muffled. Basement? He was in a basement?

A chill raced through him. He remembered a blinding light flashing in his eyes, John Watkins waving a knife around as he talked, John Watkins showing him the scar on his side, the scar _Malcolm_ had apparently left when he was just a kid. Malcolm couldn’t remember. (What else couldn’t he remember?)

 _Basement, yes_ , Gabrielle said, drawing him back to the present. _Now, are you alone?_

Malcolm probably should’ve figured that out first. But he wasn’t surprised that Gabrielle (even his subconscious’ version of her) would have different priorities. She was always telling him to ground himself, after all. Name five things you can hear, see, feel, and all that.

_Focus!_

Right. Okay. He glanced over his shoulder and there, there was Jared, standing behind him. Shifting from one foot to the other. He still looked scared, but also angry now that Malcolm was awake.

 _Weapons?_ Gabrielle prompted.

A knife gripped in Jared’s right hand. The same one that had stabbed Malcolm, judging by the dried blood crusting at the place where the blade met the hilt. Unless Jared ran around stabbing other people.

Well, he’d strangle the man who raised him to death and then hacked at him with a knife. So it wasn’t totally implausible.

 _Don’t worry about that._ Gabrielle’s voice was impatient in his ear. _Stop the bleeding._

Right. Blood loss. Dangerous.

Jared kept watching him but still didn’t move as Malcolm gripped the fabric of his shirt and tore away a strip. His right hand trembled almost violently, but it did what Malcolm needed it to. He stuffed the fabric under his shirt, using his left hand to press it to the half-congealed blood and the hole in his side.

“Are you gonna be all right?” Jared asked quietly.

There was actual concern in his voice. Because he didn’t want to be a murderer again? Because he though Malcolm might have friends who’d come looking for him? (Gil would be pissed that Malcolm had snuck away, but he’d still come. So would JT. Dani, though…once she realized he’d lied to her, maybe she wouldn’t be so happy to rescue him. No, that was the blood loss talking. Probably.)

Pressing harder against his wound, Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut to the sting of pain. “Been hurt worse.”

“You shouldn’t’ve been sneaking around, man.”

Malcolm cracked his eyes open. “What d’you want with me?”

Jared dodged the question. “Did my mom really send you?”

“She’s scared, Jared.”

Jared flinched slightly. “Of—of me?”

Malcolm assumed so. He nodded weakly, pretending the motion didn’t make him dizzy. “And your father. Your…your _real_ father.”

Jared’s eyes widened. “How d’you know?”

“It’s my job. And I…” He wet his lips. “I know a thing or two about having a complicated relationship with fathers.” He paused. “When did you find out?”

“About a month ago. I got my mom’s phone. Read the texts. I just wanted to know what she was so scared of.” Jared turned the knife over in his hands. “She won’t have to be scared of him much longer.”

Oh. _Oh_. “You’re gonna kill him, too?” Malcolm asked, keeping his voice as steady as possible. Which was kinda difficult, since he was pressing on his injury so hard it hurt worse. But he wasn’t dead yet, and he wasn’t so out of it that he was hearing Gabrielle’s semi-helpful instructions, so…that was good.

Jared didn’t answer. Just dropped his eyes to stare at the knife.

“Jared, listen—” Malcolm tried to edge closer, wincing as the movement stretched his wound. “We can get your mom help. Security. You don’t have to be scared of—”

“For how long?” Jared demanded. “A week? A month? This guy, he won’t leave us alone. He always wanted Mom, but now he knows about—” He broke off.

“About you,” Malcolm supplied softly. “That you’re his son.”

Jared dragged his hand over his face and through his hair, tugging at het ends. “He’s never gonna stop trying to get us back. _Me_ , he’s never gonna stop trying to get _me_ back.”

Malcolm closed his eyes again, and Clairmont Psychiatric flashed across his eyelids. Locked doors. Martins’ voice echoing through his mind: _You’re not walking away from me!_

_My boy._

Swallowing, Malcolm opened his eyes. Talking, he needed to keep talking. Needed to talk at Jared until something got through to him, and needed to talk to keep himself from passing out. “There’re other ways to keep him away from you.”

Jared scoffed, but there was the smallest hint of hope on his face. “Like what?”

Like getting Jared to confess so he’d be locked away in prison? Somehow, Malcolm didn’t think that would fly. “Restraining orders?” he offered instead. He tried not to think about how much blood he’d lost by now.

Jared tightened his grip on the knife. “That won’t stop him.”

It really wasn’t fair that Jared was making Malcolm doing all the brainstorming here. Of the two of them, Jared wasn’t the one with a stab wound. “Catch him doing something illegal,” Malcolm said with a slight slur to his voice. “He’s with Dogs of Hell—can’t be hard. Then get’m arrested.”

Jared’s forehead creased as he considered this.

“Jared, just…” Malcolm inched closer, pressing harder against his wound. “Killing people, is that always gonna be your first move now? Your solution to everything? Is that what you want for yourself?”

“You don’t know my life,” Jared growled.

“Look, what…what your dad did, it was horrible. But y’don’t have to throw your life away just to get him back. Or get back at him,” he added. “He’s not worth that, all right?” He saw a glint of what looked like understanding in Jared’s eyes. _There_ we go. He kept his voice as smooth and steady as he could. “Y’can walk away. Y’can still have a life, when all this is over.”

A life with jail time, technically, but still.

Jared wasn’t arguing.

Malcolm kept talking, hoping to drown out whatever argument was going on in Jared’s head. “The man who raised you, I know y’wanted him to see you as his son. And…and he never did. But other people might. Someone doesn’t…” A lump rose in Malcolm’s throat at the thought of Gil. “Someone doesn’t have to be related to you to be your father.”

Jared’s knuckles whitened.

“And…and besides, you’re not just your father’s son. You’re your mother’s son. And your sister’s brother. She _needs_ you, Jared. You know she does.”

“It’s not fair,” he whispered. “She was never supposed to be…”

Malcolm reached out and set his trembling hand on Jared’s knee. “It’s not too late.”

Jared drew a deep, ragged breath. But before he could speak, the light shut out, plunging the room into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my Prodigal Son friends: yes, this is ripping off Alone Time, but are you actually mad about more kidnapped-and-bleeding Malcolm?


	15. Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't perfect, but I'm really excited about the next one, so I'm just gonna...post....
> 
> Do you guys like fight scenes? I sincerely hope you like fight scenes. Warning for violence, guns, slightly unrealistic spinning kicks, a surprising amount of math, etc.

Matt (five minutes earlier)

The Dogs of Hell had two main locations, at least from what Matt could tell on his patrols. One was a bar. The other was a warehouse. The warehouse seemed more likely, and Matt’s hunch was confirmed when he caught a whiff of Malcolm’s scent.

Along with the heavy tang of blood.

And chloroform.

Matt drew one of his batons from his holster. As soon as Detective Powell left, he’d gotten home as fast as he could to change into a mask. Black again, leaving the armored red behind just one more time. (He justified it by telling himself that the sun hadn’t set yet, and he needed to be relatively inconspicuous while he tracked Malcolm.) Now he stayed in the shadows just across the street from the warehouse, pinpointing and tracking each set of footsteps and each voice.

The warehouse had two floors and a basement. The two upper floors were crawling with Dogs. Twenty-one, all armed. Mostly handguns, but there were three shotguns. Two of the handguns had suppressors. Nice; suppressors reduced accuracy. A miniscule silver lining.

It was harder to get a read on the basement. The walls were thick and there were no windows. But he recognized Malcolm’s voice, thin and shaky and hushed—but he was alive, thank God. He was talking to someone. Jared, if Matt had to guess, although whoever else was in the room with him wasn’t moving or saying anything.

Frankly, the basement wasn’t Matt’s immediate concern. He needed to clear out the rest of the warehouse first, or an errant bullet could make this whole rescue mission be in vain.

Matt probably should’ve worn the armor.

 _You don’t need armor._ That was Stick’s aged, spidery voice, sneering in his ear. _Or you wouldn’t, if you finally learned how to focus past your cry-baby feelings._

Matt drew a deep breath in and let it out. He really didn’t need Stick’s voice in his head tonight, especially since he knew _exactly_ what Stick would have to say if he knew Matt was risking his life to rescue someone like Malcolm: a liability at best, an enemy at worst.

Good thing Stick was dead.

Matt slipped out of the shadows, sprinting silently across the street, following the buzzing hum of electricity to its strongest point. A back room with a tiny window up near the ceiling. Matt couldn’t sense anyone inside, so he backed up and threw one of his clubs at the window. Glass shattered musically. Then it was a step forward and a hop up, one foot getting extra leverage from the vertical wall, and Matt was able to catch the windowsill. He swung himself over and landed lightly in the other room.

No sign of detection. Perfect. And Stick must’ve agreed, because he didn’t even argue.

Grabbing his club, Matt flipped open the electrical panel and switched off the main circuit breakers. The buzzing throughout the building went silent.

And then the startled voices started up. Someone yelled that he’d check on it. Matt melted into the corner of the room and waited. His prey was grumbling as he stepped inside, but before he could get close to the panel, Matt caught him on the side of the head with a baton. The man yelped; Matt ducked in and wrapped an arm around his throat, holding the man firmly against himself and counting the seconds until he stopped flailing and went limp. Lowering him to the ground, Matt swiftly patted him down. He found a knife, which he tossed over his shoulder out the window, and a gun, which he disassembled. The parts followed the knife, landing outside. Then he retrieved his club.

Twenty to go. Twenty-one, counting Jared.

Stick piped up in Matt’s head. _Get going. Stop wasting time._

“Shut up,” he muttered, leaving the room. The mostly open floorplan of the first floor wasn’t ideal for what he had to do (especially with the stairs leading down to the basement at the opposite side of the wide room), but he’d manage. There were beams high above him, stretching parallel to the floor just under the ceiling, that would be lovely if Matt could get to them. There were also a few other side rooms and some wide concrete pillars holding up the ceiling which he could use for cover.

And he’d need it. The Dogs were growling amongst themselves, annoyed that the lights weren’t back on. Three of them had decided to investigate the situation themselves; Matt heard the _click_ of a flashlight.

Matt hated flashlights.

He backed into a second room, waited until the three had walked past, and emerged again, stalking behind them. He grabbed the first by the throat, holding the other body as a shield, and shoved his way between the remaining two. Let them shoot each other if they wanted. But while they were trying to get a clear shot, Matt kicked out, doubling one over with a groin shot and knocking the other’s gun from his hand with a baton. The gun and the baton both went skidding across the floor.

Matt shoved the guy in his arms to the ground, punched his temple, rolled forward over him, and knocked the remaining man’s legs out from under him. Another quick punch and he was unconscious as well. The groin-shot guy was getting his breath back, but he was still in enough pain that it was ridiculously easy to take him out.

Seventeen. Jared—it was definitely Jared, Matt recognized his voice now—was hiding in the basement.

Someone yelled out across the room; Matt plastered himself behind a pillar a split second before bullets sprayed against the wall behind him.

 _They got you pinned down,_ Stick informed him helpfully.

No, it was fine. The pillar was only three feet from the wall behind him. He took a few steps back, then launched himself at the pillar, using his momentum to ricochet himself back to the wall at an upward angle. He pushed off the wall back at the pillar, back and forth until he was able to grab onto the beam above him and pull himself up. He’d barely made a sound.

The morons below him were still firing at the pillar, but they were slowly fanning out. They’d soon realize their target had disappeared. Matt smiled grimly in the dark.

His smile vanished a second later when he spread his senses beyond the men currently hunting him to realize that three footsteps had broken off and were now _descending_. Three more men retreating into the basement.

Matt’s heart beat faster in his ears.

 _You’re gonna get that kid killed,_ Stick announced.

He didn’t need Stick’s ghost to tell him that.

By this point, everyone from the second floor had swarmed down to the first. Matt crawled along the beam, inching until he was directly over the largest cluster of Dogs. No point trying to pick them off from the shadows, not if they had guns and flashlights, not without more cover. Better to make an impression.

 _Find the weak link,_ Stick reminded him unnecessarily.

One of the Dogs was favoring his left knee. Matt took a breath, spared a moment to wonder just how stupid he could get, and rolled right over the edge of the beam.

He dropped directly onto the already-injured Dog and they both went down in a heap. Something cracked—not Matt. The Dog screamed.

Between the screaming and their sheer surprise, the other Dogs hesitated, like if they stared long enough the scene in the midst of them would suddenly make sense. Matt seized his advantage and took out three other kneecaps before they knew what hit them. People could still shoot when their leg was busted, but aiming was harder, or so Matt had learned over the years.

He flipped into a spinning kick, boot thunking hard against a skull, and another man crumpled to the ground. He sensed the incoming punch as he landed, but he had too much forward momentum to change direction and caught a fist on the side of his jaw.

Stick was not pleased. _Keep your hands up, boy._

Matt’s assailant was close enough for Matt to wrap a hand around the back of his neck and tug, jerking the man’s face straight into Matt’s knee. Cartilage broke; blood splattered everywhere.

He’d completely lost track of the numbers.

The men immediately surrounding him were a groaning heap on the floor, but that meant Matt could no longer enjoy the cover of other bodies. He felt the brief warmth of a flashlight against the side of his face. Then the remaining Dogs opened fire.

Matt dropped and rolled to his right, towards the nearest pillar, just as one of the shotguns fired. A blast of lead balls imbedded in the pillar, in the wall behind him—and in Matt’s left arm.

He hissed through his teeth.

 _Keep moving, idiot,_ Stick growled.

Closing his eyes, Matt ignored him. He needed a second, just a second, to force himself to focus past the burning heat of the shot lodged in his arm. Resting his forehead against the cool concrete, he caught his breath and counted heartbeats. Eight still on this floor, three now in the basement with Malcolm.

The eight were spreading out again, soon to surround him. Matt opened his eyes to nothing. He had only one club left, but he tightened his grip on it. Couldn’t afford to throw it. His ability to do range attacks had dropped to zero. Which was unfortunate, because even though the basement stairs were close enough now that he _thought_ he could reach them before he was shot to death, that wouldn’t do any good since he couldn’t sense another exit. All he’d achieve would be to drag Malcolm out into the open, and they’d both end up dead.

Especially because the scent of Malcolm’s blood was somehow getting _stronger_. Matt had to take out the remaining Dogs in this floor. Clear a safe path.

Stick’s voice in his ear was sardonic. _And how are ya gonna do that?_ he wanted to know.

It was a good question.

For a second, he thought longingly of Malcolm’s collection of weapons. He could do with a few shuriken right now.

 _I always knew you were a waste of my time,_ Stick hissed. _Think, Matty!_ _What’s your advantage?_

Matt didn’t need sight. And the two remaining men with flashlights were apparently prepared for a mission, because they were also the ones with suppressors attached to the barrel of their handguns. Which meant they’d be inaccurate enough that Matt could dodge their bullets. Probably. It was the others that Matt was more worried about, but he’d have to take the risk.

And he’d have to risk losing his baton after all.

He pinpointed one of the flashlights, down to the subtle creaking of the plastic under the man’s grip, and he hurled his baton. The man jerked in surprise and the baton missed the flashlight, but it still struck his arm hard enough that he dropped the tool. Matt started sprinting as soon as he sensed the beam of light shift away.

He slammed straight into his enemy, but his proximity to the Dog didn’t stop the other Dogs from opening fire. Matt felt the body jerk and instantly dropped it, the human shield he’d never wanted. He was already on the ground and rolling, rolling under the gunfire and towards his baton, which he snatched up and hurled at the second man with a flashlight. It sounded like a finger broke. Either way, the second flashlight hit the ground.

And Matt couldn’t feel any light. Not any light at all.

The spray of gunfire hesitated.

Matt grinned into the dark.

~

Malcolm

“What’s happening?” Jared whispered, holding out his phone with the flashlight app. A small square of white light lit up the room, but the light kept shaking along with Jared’s hand.

Malcom was slumped all the way on the floor by this point, forehead on the ground. The ground was cool. It felt good. And he needed…needed to save his strength. Because all he’d been able to hear for the last ten minutes was almost nonstop gunfire. Three Dogs of Hell came sprinting down into the basement earlier, and now they paced back and forth in front of the one doorway, crackling with tension.

Malcolm definitely didn’t know what was happening. Too much to hope for rescue, so…what, a gang war? Maybe? Maybe.

All he hoped was that the enemy of his enemy would turn out to be his friend.

The gunfire up above stopped for a second, and the whole basement seemed to hold its breath.

Then the gunfire was up again, but the shots were peppering out until it sounded like there was only one gun left. A second later, silence fell upstairs.

Jared was cursing fluently in a hushed, choked voice.

The door at the top of the stairs creaked open.

Jared dropped his knife, grabbing a handgun from his waistband. Malcolm couldn’t see where the knife landed, but he groped along the floor until— _there_ —his fingers curled around the handle. He drew it in close, waiting, heart pounding.

He didn’t even hear the footsteps coming down the stairs. There was no warning, just suddenly a man-shaped shadow in Jared’s trembling light. The man took out the three Dogs of Hell with brutal precision, leaving them in a heap on the floor. Then he held perfectly still—like he knew Jared’s gun (the barrel also trembling) was aimed at his chest.

And…oh. By now, Malcolm would know that silhouette anywhere.

“Jared,” Malcolm whispered desperately, trying to get up and wincing as the movement tore at the gash in his side. “Just…stay calm and, trust me, you need to put that gun down.”

Despite their earlier heart-to-heart, Jared definitely didn’t trust him. “Who are you?” he shouted.

No response. The silence was thick and tense. Suffocating.

“Jared, come on!” Malcolm gripped the knife tighter but put his free hand on Jared’s leg again. Both were trembling: his hand and the leg. “Remember what I told you? Don’t throw your life away, and if you don’t put your weapon down _right now_ , I guarantee you’ll be—”

“You want me to put it down?” Suddenly Jared dropped the phone, leaving nothing more than a thin ring of light where the phone landed on the floor. Malcolm felt hands grab him in the new darkness; Jared was hauling him to his feet, making him gasp with pain as fire split across his side. More blood wet the fabric of his shirt, but that was the least of Malcolm’s concerns because now he also felt the cold barrel of the gun tucking intimately under his chin.

“Get out!” Jared yelled, right next to Malcolm’s ear. “Get out right now or he’s dead!”

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Don’t—” he started to say, only to hear a _click_ as the gun cocked. Which meant it hadn’t been cocked before, which meant Jared really didn’t want to shoot him, which meant maybe they could all still get out of this. Even Jared. “Listen,” he whispered. “You don’t have to do this, you’re not a killer, you’re just scared, but we can get you _help_ , we can—”

“Shut up!” Jared screamed, sweat dripping from his hair onto the side of Malcolm’s face. “Get out right now!”

A second later, the gun was knocked out from under Malcolm’s chin. It fired, the _bang_ echoing across the room and stabbing in Malcolm’s ears just as Matt crashed into them. There was a sharp jerking motion and then Jared was screaming and the gun went skidding across the room. Jared dropped Malcolm, who crumbled onto his knees with head braced against his forearm, trying as hard as he could not to black out.

 _Stop the bleeding._ That was Gabrielle’s voice, totally unhelpful because he’d _tried_ that already and he had way bigger things to worry about now anyway.

He just couldn’t remember what they all were.

He couldn’t hear anything past the ringing from the gunshot.

Wait, no. There was his name. “Malcolm, Malcolm.” That was Matt’s voice, urgent in his ear, but also muted, like he was talking from very far away. “Come on, we don’t have long.”

Malcolm nodded along and started pushing himself up. His fingers cramped where they still clutched the knife.

“Wait, hold still.” Matt swooped in, hands at Malcolm’s biceps, bringing him to his feet and steadying him. “I’ve got you. Come on, stay with me.”

Malcolm tried, he really did, as Matt steered him in the right direction, keeping one hand on his arm. Like a weird twist on how Malcolm had pretended to guide Matt that one time. Malcolm struggled to hear and understand Matt’s whispered directions, and he couldn’t…couldn’t really see. Later he might appreciate the irony. He tripped at the first step and felt more blood ooze from his wound. He tried to blink the stars out of his eyes.

The short journey up the stairs left him breathless. “Wait,” he coughed out, fighting not to double over. “Wait…”

Matt waited almost three full seconds—generous, really—before he was nudging Malcolm forward, speaking in an anxious hiss: “We can’t wait, I’m sorry.”

Malcolm forced his numb feet to move. Matt steered them around piles of bodies. Some were moving, some were moaning. Others might as well be dead.

 _Were_ they dead?

Malcolm swallowed thickly. “Did you—”

Matt’s gloved hand on his arm tightened. “Shh. Keep going. Save your breath.”

Wise advice, very wise, since Malcolm’s lungs seemed to have forgotten how to expand all the way. Which was very distracting to realize. Not surprising, though. It was yet another symptom of blood loss. Familiar by now.

He hadn’t quite reached this point before, though: the point where he stopped being able to _think_. His thoughts kept cycling back to all the men on the ground. Men who’d been hurt, maybe even killed, just so Malcolm could be rescued. He tugged weakly at Matt, trying to get him to slow down, wanting to ask if they could at least…at least call an ambulance or _something_ , but Matt must not have noticed. Which was weird, because Matt noticed _everything_.

Maybe Matt didn’t _want_ to call an ambulance.

Maybe Matt knew they’d be dead before anyone could help them.

And _that_ thought finally brought Malcolm’s feet stuttering to a halt.

Matt turned on him. “What are you _doing_ , we can’t—”

“Matt,” Malcolm interrupted thickly. The ringing in his ears got louder, drowning out whatever he was supposed to say. He opened his mouth just as his eyes closed. His fingers went limp.

The last thing he heard as he slipped into unconsciousness was the sound of the knife clattering to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you wondering how Matt can handle gunfire with his hearing - EXCELLENT QUESTION AND I DON'T KNOW. There's a thing called an acoustic reflex that can protect the ear from loud noises so...maybe he has a fancy version of that? Idk, take it up with his show, where he does just fine and no one (except the audience, lol) questions it.


	16. Worth It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realize I just posted the other day, and also that I'm wayyy behind on comments, but I'm really excited for this chapter so I'm just gonna...post it anyway. :)

Malcolm

He was startled awake by loud chirping to a sharp pain in his side. Which wasn’t exactly shocking, all things considered. What _was_ shocking was…literally everything else.

He was in his apartment, even though he didn’t remember getting home. On his bed, actually. Stretched out on scratchy towels. He could tell they were scratchy because he could feel them, and he could feel them because his shirt was off. He definitely did not remember taking his shirt off.

Sunshine was chirping.

A head was bent over him; from this angle, Malcolm mostly just saw messy, dark brown hair sticking up in almost every possible wrong direction. The head belonged to Matt, who was quickly and efficiently drawing suture thread through Malcolm’s skin.

Malcolm felt like he came to the conclusion that Matt had brought him here to stitch up his stab wound kind of belatedly.

“Good morning,” Matt said, voice low, without looking up.

“W—” Malcolm said, trying to talk, but his voice was about as scratchy as the towels. Screaming would do that.

A grimace flashed across the part of Matt’s face Malcolm could see from this angle. “Sorry, sorry.” He reached—again, without looking—on the floor next to him, and the next thing Malcolm knew, he was handing Malcolm a glass of water.

Well, Matt knew what he was doing with the whole first aid thing. Which was probably why he was still alive. Malcolm drank thirstily and tried again: “Where’s Jared?”

Matt was back at the stitches; Malcolm hissed through his teeth. (He had pain meds somewhere, but apparently Matt hadn’t wasted time looking for them.) Anyway, Matt didn’t answer what should’ve been a very important question.

And suddenly, Malcolm was remembering some of those reports about Daredevil. The injuries associated with the men he took down. The reason criminals were so terrified of him. Malcolm’s chest tightened. “Did you kill him?”

Matt flinched back, jerking his head up at Malcolm before turning sharply away. “I don’t kill people.”

“Oh.” The certainty in his voice made Malcolm feel a bit better, but something about the way he deliberately turned his head away suggested that there was more going on here than Matt wanted to admit. “Then where is he?”

Matt hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said at last.

“You…what?” That didn’t make sense. Not that Malcolm had such a perfect memory of everything that had happened last night.

(It _was_ last night, right? What day was it?)

“He ran off while I was with you.”

Malcolm stiffened. Jared had gotten away. After everything, he’d _gotten_ _away_.

Matt tensed, and, keeping his face aimed at Malcolm’s stitches, he spoke quickly—probably to try to interrupt the volley of questions he knew was coming. “I picked your lock to get us in here, hope you don’t mind. You should get better locks, though.”

Okay, so Malcolm was a bit thrown by that. His locks were some of the most expensive out there. After all, he was the son of a serial killer and made his living hunting down other serial killers. It wasn’t paranoia if you were right, and all that.

Malcolm refocused. “I don’t mind, but I don’t understand. We _had_ Jared, why would— _ow!_ ”

“Sorry,” Matt said, not sounding sorry at all for suddenly pulling the thread harder than was probably necessary. “I, uh…I fed your bird. She was chirping. I found her food in your bathroom. Didn’t know how much to give her, so I had to guess. Sorry if it was too much.”

Trust Matt Murdock to rescue someone from a murderer, stitch up their bloody knife wound, and then apologize for possibly overfeeding their parakeet.

“How’d you find me?” Malcolm asked.

“Scent.”

Malcolm felt his jaw drop. “ _What?_ ”

Matt shrugged uncomfortably. “Well, mostly. I was looking for you by the Dogs of Hell, but the chloroform caught my attention. That combined with your scent made it easy to find you.”

Huh. “How’d I get… _here?_ ” Last thing he remembered, he’d still been at the warehouse.

Same shrug a second time. “Rooftops. Mostly.”

“You…” Malcolm squinted at him. “Carried me?”

Matt was still avoiding his gaze. “Not all the way. You sort of…stumbled around, for part of it.”

Huh. Malcolm thought he was probably being generous.

“Anyway, I think you’re good.” Matt tied off the stitches. “Unless there’s other damage I should know about it?” His voice got slightly higher all of a sudden, like he was _worried_. “I don’t hear any broken bones and your breathing’s fine, but…”

Malcolm blinked. “It’s so crazy that you can tell that. But no, I’m fine.”

Matt nodded, accepting this. Because of course it made sense to _him_ that someone with a stab wound would insist on being fine. “What, uh…” Matt cleared his throat. “What happened with Jared? Did he say anything?”

Everything from before the fight rushed back to the forefront of Malcolm’s mind. “He’s gonna kill his dad!”

Matt’s mouth twitched downwards in a frown. “Malcolm,” he began gently, “he already killed his—”

“His _real_ dad. One of the pictures he had on his desk, it was of an older man. Dogs of Hell.”

“What makes you think he’s his father?”

Malcolm explained it all as quickly as he could. “Don’t you get it? This is the person Violet was so scared of, and he’s the reason Jared’s been able to hide out with the Dogs of Hell.”

Matt pinched the bridge of his nose, apparently processing this. Malcolm braced himself for disbelief. Arguments. Skepticism, at least.

So it was sort of a shock when all Matt said was, “Why would Jared want to kill him? I understand that he’s threatening his mother, but there are other ways.”

“He’s already killed once and gotten away with it,” Malcolm pointed out. “Besides, he…he hates his real father. Maybe he thinks, if he kills him, he can pretend it’s not true.” He cleared his throat, not wanting to linger too long on that point. “Matt, listen, I’m—I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Matt asked absently, leaning back and rolling his left sleeve up.

Malcolm’s eyes widened at the sight of the dark red tear in his arm. “What happened?”

“Shotgun.” Matt’s voice was way too casual for that statement. He made a face as he poked at the injury. “You got any tweezers?”

“Uh…”

“Never mind, found them.” Matt pulled a pair of tweezers out of Malcolm’s first aid kit without needing to look. Then he started _digging in his arm._

Malcolm gaped at him. “What’re you—”

“Got it,” Matt said through clenched teeth, and pulled the tweezers out with a tiny blood-coated ball clasped between the prongs. He dropped it into his other hand and rolled it between his fingers, looking pleased with himself. “Anyway, what are you sorry for?”

Malcolm’s blinked, unable to look away from the fresh blood welling up from Matt’s arm. All right, so it wasn’t as bad as Malcolm’s wound. But…for some reason, it was kind of shocking that Matt would take his time healing Malcolm before dealing with his own pain. Yeah, Matt had whispered a prayer to be shot instead of Malcolm back when they were trapped together in Jared’s house, but that was _before_ Malcolm almost exposed his identity to the NYPD. An exposure that was _still_ a possibility.

“Malcolm,” Matt prompted, slipping the bloody ball (a _shotgun shot_ ) into a pocket like some kind of crazy souvenir, then reaching confidently to pour alcohol on a cotton swab.

Malcolm tried to remember what they’d even been talking about. “Um…Jared got away. And he knows you’re connected to me. I mean, sort of.” Malcolm shifted a little (which hurt). “All I’m saying is, I’m thinking you’ll have a hard time getting to him again.”

“We,” Matt corrected. His tone was casual, but his eyes darted up, almost nervously, like he was checking to make sure he’d gotten the answer right on a test.

It was the first time Malcolm had ever seen his eyes. For the first time since they’d met, they weren’t shielded by either tinted glasses or a mask.

They were hazel.

“I gotta call Gil,” Malcolm blurted out suddenly.

Matt looked confused. “What, _now?_ ”

“I’m in so much trouble,” Malcolm groaned, leveraging himself upright in the bed and reaching for his phone, only to realize that it was gone. He froze.

“What is it?” Matt’s head tilted sharply.

“They have my phone,” Malcolm whispered.

Matt closed his eyes. “I’m assuming you’re talking about your real phone. Not a burner.”

His real phone, with his real contacts, real text messages, real pictures. Malcolm didn’t have a secret identity like Matt’s, but he still didn’t want the Dogs of Hell figuring out that he worked with the NYPD. Or deciding to visit his family. His hands twisted in his bedsheets.

“Malcolm!” Matt’s face was right in front of his, sightless eyes aimed at Malcolm’s nose. “Calm down. Is there anything on your phone that will lead them here, to this apartment?”

Malcolm shook his head. “I don’t—I don’t think so. But my mother, they could find my mother.” Not that her address was in his phone, but Jessica wasn’t exactly subtle. Not in texts and not in real life. They’d figure out who she was, and then it would be easy to find the Whitly residence. “Matt, I _have_ to call Gil.”

Matt pressed his lips into an unhappy line, but he unzipped a pocket on his leg and pulled out a clunky flip phone that probably belonged to the nineties.

“Thank you,” Malcolm whispered.

Gil picked up before his phone rang even once. “Kid?” he burst out.

Malcolm’s throat tightened at the thought of how hearing “kid” from Gil would always mean infinitely more than hearing “my boy” from his own father. “Yeah, Gil,” he said thickly. “It’s me.”

“Where are you? Are you all right? Are you alone?”

“Gil, I’m fine. I’m at my place. No lollipops.”

A short silence. Then: “What the hell happened?”

“I was kidnapped,” Malcolm explained, although he figured Gil kinda already knew that part by now. “Then I was, uh…rescued.”

“By?” Gil demanded. “No, don’t tell me. Not the vigilante?”

Matt’s mouth tilted in half a smile.

“Yeah, him,” Malcolm admitted. “But, um, don’t worry. I’m at my place, I’m not—”

“Does he know where you are?”

Malcolm tried to sound convincing: “Nope.”

Another pause. “Then you won’t mind if I come check on you.”

“No!” Malcolm exclaimed, flapping his hands at Matt as the vigilante started to get up like he was already about to bolt.

“…No?” Gil’s voice was scarily neutral.

“No, uh…no need. No lollipops, remember? I’m fine, I’m just…sleeping.”

As soon as the words were out, Malcolm cringed. Matt raised his eyebrows.

“Sleeping,” Gil echoed flatly, but there was a note of hurt underneath as Malcolm dug his heels in on this lie.

Malcolm hurried to change the subject. “Can you go to my mother’s house?”

“What? Why?”

“The, um…the guys who got me, they kinda stole my phone.”

Gil swore loudly. “And you think they’ll go after her?”

“I don’t know why they wouldn’t,” Malcolm admitted.

Gil swore again. “All right. I’ll take care of her.” He paused for a third pause. “But are _you_ actually safe?”

Malcolm spoke clearly: “One hundred percent.”

Gil sighed deeply into the phone. “Something is very wrong,” he said, “with the fact that _now_ is the first time I’ve ever believed you about a number so high.”

“I’m not lying, Gil,” Malcolm said softly, looking at Matt. “Right now, I’m completely safe.”

Matt’s mouth twisted in an awkward imitation of a smile, meaning he got Malcolm’s point and had no idea what to do with it.

“I gotta go,” Malcolm said, and hung up before Gil could try to pry more information out of him. He gave Matt the phone back, and jumped when Matt calmly snapped it into two pieces.

“You owe me a new phone,” he said lightly, stuffing the pieces back into his pocket. “One the police won’t be tracking.”

Oh. Malcolm hadn’t even thought of that. For all that he was excellent at hunting down criminals, it turned out that he wasn’t so great at _being_ a criminal.

~

Matt

Now that Malcolm was no longer in imminent danger of bleeding out, Matt wasn’t sure what to do. He flexed his left arm, distracting himself with the sting of pain. He didn’t want to leave Malcolm alone—who _knew_ what kind of trouble he’d find—but he wasn’t used to…this. Any of this.

Malcolm didn’t seem similarly indecisive. He tried to push himself off the bed, letting out a choked groan as the movement tugged at his wound.

“You shouldn’t be doing that,” Matt told him.

“Yeah, well,” Malcolm mumbled, finally getting to a standing position, “I guess it’s what I get for going after him without backup.”

Realizing there was no point in attempting to order Malcolm around, Matt concentrated on cleaning away the first aid supplies. “It’s my fault.”

Malcolm paused, surprised but also trying to catch his breath. “What is?”

“You…” Matt worked his jaw. “The fact that you went after him alone.”

“…How?” Malcolm asked blankly.

Matt kept his eyes on Malcolm’s flimsy first aid kit. “The way I treated you when I found out about…about the DNA and the police.”

“How does that—”

“Did I give you _any_ indication that I’d back you up if you decided to use what we’d learned to go after either Jared or his biological father?”

Malcolm slumped down on the couch. “No.”

“So. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not like I’m famous for asking for backup anyway,” Malcolm couldn’t seem to help but add.

Maybe so, but Malcolm was the one who’d wanted the two of them to be a team. Which, as far as Matt was concerned, placed all the blame squarely on Matt’s shoulders.

Before Matt could say any of that, though, Malcolm started limping into his kitchen, favoring his entire right side. “You want any food? I have…licorice.”

Matt was startled into laughing. “What?”

“And, uh…” Malcolm opened his fridge; a few lonely bottles of things clinked around. “Cheese.”

Matt wasn’t hungry, but if this was Malcolm’s way of trying to make things up to him, Matt didn’t want to deny him that. “What about alcohol?”

“ _That_ , I have plenty of.”

Matt grinned despite himself, getting up and following Malcolm into the kitchen. He was lucky he didn’t have to pretend to feel his way around the place; Malcolm’s loft was so spacious that he’d have to go several feet out of his way to find a wall to brush against. Instead, he walked confidently into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, listening as Malcolm poured drinks.

“Here,” Malcolm said, presenting a glass with a flourish.

Matt sniffed it. “A gift?” he guessed.

“What?” Malcolm sounded confused as he rounded the counter to settle in one of the tall chairs tucked up against the counter.

“Someone got this for you.”

“Oh, uh…” Malcolm’s body temperature rose slightly. “That would be my mother. Always trying to force pills and alcohol onto me. Says it’ll help with…uh.” He cut himself off and took a small sip of his own drink.

Matt raised his eyebrows. “My, uh, my mother gave me pills and liquor too, once,” he offered.

“Really?” Malcolm sounded delighted. “That’s horrible.”

Matt should probably mention that there hadn’t been any other treatments available, but he decided not to. He took a drink instead, noting the layered flavors. This was about fifteen times better than the kind of swill he drank with Foggy and Karen. Probably fifteen times more expensive, too.

After a moment of silence, Malcolm started drumming his fingers on the counter. “Hey, Matt?”

“What?”

“Are we friends?”

Matt’s carefully set down his glass. “What?”

“I’m just curious.” The casual note in Malcolm’s voice sounded forced, and his heart was definitely beating too quickly for this to be a matter of idle curiosity. “Would you say we’re friends, or allies, or…?”

Did…did normal people just _ask_ that question? Matt had no idea how to answer, and didn’t want to know what Malcolm was deducing from his prolonged silence. He forced a laugh. “Uh. Is this how you evaluate all your relationships?”

“You let Jared get away,” Malcolm explained quietly, “so that you could help me. You wouldn’t have done that if all you cared about was solving the case.”

True, but that didn’t mean he had to cross-examine Matt about it. Matt tried not to sound as defensive as he felt. “I wasn’t going to just let you die.”

“I wasn’t in danger of dying.”

Matt’s eyebrows shot up. “You were bleeding!”

“Not that badly.”

“You _passed out!_ ”

“You shouldn’t have wasted your time on me!” Malcolm burst out.

Which was…well. That was another matter entirely. “Why not?” Matt demanded.

“Why—” Malcolm faltered. “What?”

“You passed out and you were still bleeding,” Matt repeated, listening carefully to Malcolm’s breathing and heartrate, hunting for a sign that he was hitting home. “If I’d gone after Jared, you would’ve died. Agreed?”

“You don’t know that,” Malcolm insisted stubbornly.

He’d make a wonderful witness. Too bad he was currently a hostile one. “Your wound was an inch deep,” Matt began carefully, spelling out each logical step one at a time. “You needed stitches. You were passed out. _Ergo_ , you were incapable of stitching it up yourself, and therefore the wound would not have closed, and _you would have died_. Agreed?”

Malcolm made an indignant sound. “Are you seriously cross-examining me right now?”

“You were cross-examining me ten seconds ago!” Matt retorted, exasperated.

“I’m a profiler, I don’t do that.”

Matt refused to be distracted. “Tell me why saving your life is a waste of my time.”

“It’s just math,” Malcolm snapped. “An innocent girl will go to prison if you don’t catch this guy and literally throw him at the DA.”

Matt slowly tilted his head. “So one girl staying out of prison is worth more than you…staying alive?”

Malcolm slid off the chair and slumped down onto the floor with his back pressed against the counter and his head in his hands. “Ugh.”

“Malcolm…” Matt’s mind raced because he’d clearly just tripped over a landmine. He crouched next to Malcolm and, when Malcolm didn’t react, put a hand tentatively on his shoulder. “Why is her freedom worth more than your life?”

Malcolm’s voice was so quiet and mumbled that even Matt had to concentrate to hear it. “She’s innocent.”

What? Matt pulled back even as he zeroed in on Malcolm’s heartbeat. “Malcolm…what did you do?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” Malcolm whispered.

His heart beat steadily. Matt instantly felt guilty for assuming the opposite, even for a second. “Okay, so—”

“I did _nothing_. They were _dying_ , and I did _nothing!_ ”

Oh.

Matt opened his mouth, then closed it. The problem was, it was all too easy to switch their positions in his mind, and he couldn’t think of anything that would convince _him_ to shed the weight of guilt of nonaction, so he doubted he could say anything that would help Malcolm.

Malcolm pressed at his forehead with the heel of his hand. “See,” he mumbled. “You agree.”

“You called the cops,” Matt reminded him. “You told me yourself.”

Malcolm shook his head, pressing harder against his own skull. “I waited a week. A _week_.”

“You were a kid,” Matt said gently. “You were scared. You had to wait for the right time, or he might’ve hurt you, too.”

Malcolm shook his head harder. “Matt, I _don’t remember_ what I was doing during that week.”

Matt stiffened.

“My father arranged a camping trip. Me, and…and another serial killer. My father’s mentee.”

 _How_ many serial killers were in Malcolm’s life?

“He took…he took this girl. Woman. He’d been keeping her in a box in our basement, but she was still alive when…” Malcolm’s breathing was getting faster, shallower. “He took her with us. And I _don’t know what happened_. Except—” He broke off sharply. “I stabbed him.”

“Who? Your father?”

“No, the other killer. John Watkins. I stabbed him with a knife my father gave me.”

“You remember?”

“Kind of,” Malcolm whispered. “I don’t know.”

He sounded like half the clients Matt had taken over the past few years, scared and half-convincing themselves that they’d done something wrong just because someone in authority had told them they were guilty, treated them like they were evil. Matt tried to meet Malcolm’s eyes, hoping Malcolm would see sympathy there. “Then how do you—”

“He showed me his scar,” Malcolm interrupted, curling in on himself.

Okay, then. Still. “He was a killer. You were defending yourself.”

“Was I? Because I _don’t know_. I don’t know why I did what I did.” Malcolm swallowed—hard. “I don’t know what _else_ I did. Which means I have no idea what I—” He squeezed his trembling hand into a fist. “What I’m capable of.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, that's like 3,000 words of these boys just...talking. I hope you enjoyed.
> 
> Also! The brilliant stlouisphile made cover art for this fic and it's amaaaazing and I meant to add it to the story, but...I don't actually know how to do that? I thought I could just turn it into a "skin" and that would make it show up like a banner at the beginning, but that didn't work at all, so now I'm stumped. Any tech savvy readers know how to add a jpg to a fic?


	17. Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourself for: The Boys' Attempt(s) at Philosophy(?)

Matt

_I have no idea what I’m capable of._

Matt shifted until he was sitting next to Malcolm, both their backs against his counter, drinks forgotten. Matt was not an expert on social interactions except for the polite small talk that was required when establishing rapport with clients, but he was very aware that he was supposed to be…saying something, here. He should be encouraging Malcolm. He should be doing everything he could to beat back the fear in Malcolm’s voice.

He should be doing everything he wished someone had done for him when he’d first heard his grandmother say he had the devil in him.

But Matt was also scared. No, terrified: terrified of saying the wrong thing, of somehow making things _worse_ , of hurting Malcolm, of ruining things with Malcolm now when it seemed like, by God’s grace, he’d been given a second chance.

So Matt did the only thing he felt confident in doing: he leaned in, letting Malcolm feel the weight of his presence, hoping Malcolm would be reassured that, well, at least Matt wasn’t running away from him. It felt so utterly insufficient, but he heard (and felt) Malcolm draw in a deep, deep breath and slowly let it out. So maybe Matt had helped after all.

Not long term, though. No, the things Malcolm clearly believed about himself were too complex to become unraveled so easily. But that would have to be someone else’s job. Matt was certainly not qualified.

Malcolm took another deep breath. “What time is it?”

Matt felt automatically for his watch before remembering that he wasn’t wearing it. He strained his hearing, but this part of New York had a very different feel to it from the blocks surrounding Matt’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. He shrugged. “No idea.”

“Ugh.” Malcolm started to push himself up and Matt caught a small hitch in his breath at the motion.

Matt hurried to stand up first and extended a hand so he could pull Malcolm more gently to his feet. At least the stitches were holding so far. Matt was decent at them, but nowhere near as skilled as Claire. He found himself wondering what Claire and Malcolm would think of each other, and shook his head before his imagination could go too far. Malcolm already knew Foggy and Karen and he knew Matt’s identity—he didn’t need more glimpses into Matt’s life.

 _Why, exactly,_ asked a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Maggie, _would that be such a bad thing?_

He didn’t have an answer, so he ignored the question. “You should, uh, get some sleep. Recover. You’ll heal faster.”

Malcolm swallowed a yawn. “What about you?”

“What?”

“Are you staying?”

Matt blinked, computing the question. He heard screams outside, and sirens. He didn’t know this part of town well, but he could probably get to some of the crises, maybe even in time to be of some help. But Hell’s Kitchen needed him. Taking nights off left the people of his city vulnerable, and here he was too far away to even hear them. But fighting the Dogs of Hell hadn’t exactly been easy, and then he’d lugged Malcolm all the way here, and the thought of running and jumping back across town just to look for _more_ fights…well, by the time he got back, it might be early morning anyway, meaning he should probably just go home and sleep, maybe get more than four hours in, unless—

“Whoa,” Malcolm murmured. “That wasn’t a trick question.”

Matt blinked again. “Sorry, I…”

“Get lost in your head sometimes,” Malcolm said, shrugging. “No need to explain.”

Matt opened his mouth, wanting to argue that he didn’t get lost in his own head and simultaneously wanting to point out that overthinking was literally his job, and realized that he’d basically end up arguing with himself if he said anything at all, so he shut his mouth.

“Seriously.” Malcolm’s voice was a bit of a mumble, like enunciating took too much energy. He was putting their glasses away with slow, lethargic movements. “People respond differently to lack of sleep, but even though you’re not normally _chatty_ , your silence right now suggests that your body is coming down from the rush of cortisol and adrenaline. The drop in those hormones can trigger fatigue, decrease dopamine levels, and even activate latent illnesses. It’s commonly known as the let-down effect, although in your case—” He broke off with a yawn. “Sorry. I know I’m rambling, I do that.”

“It’s interesting,” Matt said politely, partly trying to prove that he wasn’t being affected by anything and partly because it really was interesting, albeit in a theoretical sense. Matt had been trained to withstand high amounts of pressure without crashing afterwards, so…none of that actually applied.

He was tired, though. A little bit.

Still. “I should go.” He held up a hand, cutting off Malcolm’s impending argument. “I’ll sleep, I promise. But I should do it in my own bed. Do you have, uh, a hoodie I could borrow, or something?” He just needed to disguise the distinctive silhouette. And the blood on his shirt.

“A hoodie, yeah. Somewhere, I think.” And so Malcolm wandered off, hunting through his apartment.

It took a while, as Malcolm was not much for casual wear. Matt made his way over to the couch while he waited. It was a nice couch. Not too soft, not too firm. It also smelled nice. At least, it didn’t smell like blood, which put it far ahead of Matt’s couch.

“Sorry,” Malcolm called from somewhere; his voice echoed around too much, and Matt didn’t quite have the energy to pinpoint where it originated. “I know I have one here somewhere…”

Matt smiled a little, letting his head rest against the back of the couch. It was quieter here, actually. Better insulation than at Matt’s apartment. Or maybe this part of New York simply had fewer sirens. Matt’s eyes fell closed. No point in keeping them open. Not like it made a difference.

“Oh, um.” That was Malcolm’s voice. It came from closer than Matt would’ve expected, but for some reason it wasn’t startling. Matt recognized, as if from a very distant part of his mind, the feeling of Malcolm’s weight coming to rest on the other end of the couch. Malcolm smoothed the hoodie over Matt. Or so Matt guessed—it explained the new softness settling over Matt’s lap, at least. This was important, the hoodie was important, but Matt couldn’t bring himself to care. He was caught in that nebulous world between sleep and wakefulness, slipping moment by moment closer to sleep, drawn by the slow and steady thumping of Malcolm’s tired heartbeat, until he couldn’t remember why he should fight it.

~

Sometime in the middle of the night, Matt snapped awake. He wasn’t immediately sure why, although he figured out the reason pretty quick when he heard Malcolm’s rapid breathing and even faster heartrate from the bed. It sounded almost like when he’d been poisoned. Had he been slipped something? Matt’s feet tangled in something—the hoodie? A _blanket_?—in his rush to stand up, and he slammed face-first into the ground, the _thump_ from his body hitting the ground echoed by another _thump_ from shockingly close by: Malcolm falling off the couch.

Matt tasted copper—Malcolm must’ve popped one or two of his stitches.

“Hey, hey,” Matt said automatically. Malcolm’s body was neither chilled nor burning with fever and he smelled of sweat but not sickness, so what…? Malcolm lurched upwards, hands flailing. Matt ducked back, barely avoiding a wild fist to the face. “Malcolm!” he shouted.

“ _Leave me alone!_ ” Malcolm yelled, heart pounding so loud that it was all Matt could hear. He wasn’t calming down at all—if anything, he was getting even more frenzied.

But he was completely out of it. He was _still asleep_.

Taking a risk, Matt dove in again. He caught an elbow to the cheek, but he forced Malcolm’s arms down, pinning them to his sides. Malcolm still thrashed, spittle flying through the air. Matt kicked out his legs—not hard enough to do damage, but enough to drop Malcolm to his knees—and wrapped his arms tighter around the other man, holding him close, pressed chest-to-chest, forcing him to stillness.

Well, until Malcolm smashed his forehead into Matt’s nose.

Matt’s arms sprang apart as he swore, eyes watering, face throbbing, tasting blood. But there was no time to worry about that now, not when Malcolm was rushing towards the rest of his apartment. Matt had the sudden thought that his kitchen knives weren’t exactly hard to access, or what if Malcolm kept going and managed to get into his weapons cabinet?

Taking a breath, Matt darted around Malcolm, planting himself in the way. Predictably, Malcolm crashed right into him. His arm cocked for another strike. Well aware that he was about to terrify Malcolm even more, Matt grabbed his wrist and twisted it, doubling Malcolm over. This was, he noted wryly, a repeat of the first time Malcolm met him in the mask. But this time, Matt was manipulating him purely for Malcolm’s own protection.

Malcolm let out a yelp at the tension in his wrist, and a second later he sagged against Matt, his forehead coming to rest on Matt’s shoulder. His heartbeats still sped through the room, but Matt recognized the sound of a man actively trying to slow his breathing.

Awake.

“Hey,” Matt whispered. “You with me?”

Malcolm sucked in a breath, still trembling slightly, especially his right hand. “Yeah. Yeah. With you.” He tried to push free; Matt was reluctant to let him, and kept a hand on him until he was sure Malcolm could at least stay upright. “Sorry,” Malcolm gasped.

Matt blinked. “What for?”

“For…” Malcolm waved his steadier hand helplessly. “Everything that just happened? That you had to see that?”

Matt smiled slowly. “Technically…”

“Shut up.” Malcolm rubbed at his eyes. “ _Ow_.” His hand moved towards his knife-wound.

“Hey.” Matt caught his hand and guided his curious fingers away. “You tore some of your stitches. Let me.”

Malcolm shivered slightly, and his hand was still trembling. “Pain meds, this time.” He trudged into the bathroom, and Matt listened as he shook two pills from a bottle and swallowed them dry. Reemerging in the living room, he flicked on a light and his heartrate jumped. “What happened to your nose?”

Matt rubbed self-consciously at the blood on his upper lip. “Nothing. Lucky shot. Don’t worry about it.”

Malcolm’s whole body slumped. “I…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Matt repeated firmly. “Just tell me what happened.”

Malcolm paused. His head lowered. “Bit of episode four, bit of episode three.”

“Episode?”

“Gotta keep track of the nightmares somehow. They’re ranked in order of frequency.” He shrugged. “Episode four, well, that would be a serial killer breaking into my home and hacking my family to pieces while I’m chained up. To a chair, to the wall, whatever. It’s more likely than you’d think.”

Matt needed a second to process that, honestly, but Malcolm didn’t stop.

“And episode three…” His voice hardened. “ _That_ would be the one where I die trying to save my team. But I don’t wake up, no, that’d be too easy. I float around like a ghost until they all get taken down too. Because of course my sacrifice wouldn’t do anything to actually keep them safe, wouldn’t mean anything to anyone.”

His voice was bitter at that last part, like he was speaking from experience.

Matt cleared his throat. “Yeah, I…know the feeling.”

He wondered what episodes one and two were.

Malcolm coughed and winced. “Anyway, ready when you are,” he said, pressing his hand to the place where his stitches had torn.

Matt simply gestured to the couch. Malcolm ended up stretched out across it while Matt sat on the edge with the first aid kit balanced on his knees. Matt found himself enjoying the calm quiet as he unraveled the bloody stitches, but as soon as he picked up the needle, Malcolm opened his mouth.

“So you just stitch up yourself all the time?” he asked, curling his hands into a fist at his side.

Matt sighed. Malcolm probably wanted the distraction of conversation, so Matt reluctantly played along. “Sometimes. I have a…a nurse, though, who helps me.”

Malcolm clenched his teeth. “Your own private nurse? Seems like a good idea for a guy like you.”

Unsure what to say to that, Matt just concentrated on the stitches.

“Is that why you got the body armor?” Malcolm stretched out, toes pushing against the back of the couch, like if he just moved enough he could get away from the needle plunging in and out of his arm.

Matt debated using a gentler touch, but he didn’t think Malcolm would appreciate extending this first aid session. And Matt definitely didn’t want that, not if Malcolm was going to keep poking at…whatever he was poking at. “Mostly,” he answered shortly.

“But you don’t even wear the body armor.”

“I do,” Matt argued.

“Not all the time,” Malcolm argued back.

“I do wear it, though,” Matt muttered, trying not to sound petulant. He couldn’t even walk away from whatever stupid debate they were having, because he couldn’t bring himself to leave Malcolm's stitches undone.

“But why not all the time?”

Matt exhaled through his nose. “Because I’ve been reliably informed that it’s not exactly subtle.” (Foggy thought it looked stupid, and he wasted no chance to tell Matt that.)

Malcolm persevered. “But it’s armored.”

That wasn’t a question, so Matt ignored it.

Malcolm leveraged himself into a slightly upright position. “You should’ve—”

Matt shoved him back with the hand not holding the needle. “Stop moving.”

“You should’ve worn it tonight,” Malcolm insisted. “Or last night, or whenever it was.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t.”

“You got shot! You wouldn’t have gotten shot!”

“I would’ve been shot anyway,” Matt snapped. “If anything, I probably would’ve been shot more.” The armor was light, but Matt still wasn’t quite as fast as he was in nothing but the black ensemble.

“But you wouldn’t be as hurt.”

Matt had no answer to that. It was starting to feel like he was the one getting stabbed with a needle, not Malcolm.

“Or…is that the point?” Malcolm’s voice softened dangerously. When Matt got analytical, it sharpened his voice. Like he was doing a cross-examination. But when Malcolm got analytical, it sounded like he was speaking gently to a small child. “You want it to hurt. Why? Because you think you deserve it?”

 _No, you’re just projecting._ Matt barely bit back the words in time. “Stop.”

“Do you really think you’ve done so many bad things? Is that why—”

“It’s not what I’ve _done_ ,” Matt burst out. “It’s who I _am_.”

And that…that was about ten times more raw and honest than he’d meant to be, but better that than letting Malcolm think he had some kind of…some kind of insight into Matt’s soul. He didn’t. He _didn’t_.

“Why? _Ngh_.” Malcolm hissed through his teeth at the pull of the needle through his flesh, but still managed to keep his voice level when he asked, “What are you?”

Matt breathed tensely through his nose. He tied off the last suture and cleaned the wound again. He threw everything in the kit and closed it. And through all this, Malcolm just waited.

Matt rubbed anxiously at the fabric of his pants. “When—when I was a kid,” he started to say, wincing internally at how anxious he sounded. He was speaking too fast, in short, rapid bursts that sounded nothing like his normal speech. “My grandmother, she—she said I—she said my dad and I—” He stopped, wet his lips, tried to get control of the stammer. “She said we had the devil inside.”

Malcolm’s heartrate didn’t change. He gave no indication of being shocked or horrified. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, it just—there’s something wrong with us. With me. The—the anger, the rage, the way it—it _feels good_ to—to—” He dropped his eyes away, did his best to aim them at the floor. “To hurt other people.”

“Bad people,” Malcolm pointed out.

Matt gave annoyed jerk of his head. “Still.”

“Okay,” Malcolm said calmly. “So you’ve got some anger issues and…questionable coping mechanisms. Doesn’t mean you have to punish yourself.”

“I’m not,” Matt growled.

“So, what, you’re just expendable, then?”

That—yes. Actually. Yes. Sometimes Matt deserved the pain, sometimes he didn’t, but it _never_ actually _mattered_. Matt blinked in surprise at the calm summation of something he’d never exactly had words for until now.

“The people you save,” Malcolm murmured. “Their pain is more important than yours. Right? And even the people you hurt, the bad guys… _they_ deserve the pain, so inflicting it on them is more important than keeping yourself safe. Right? Whatever _you_ go through, it just…doesn’t matter.”

“All that matters,” Matt said heavily, “is keeping the city safe.”

“No,” Malcolm said. “I mean, that’s clearly what you tell yourself, but no.”

Matt’s eyebrows shot up. “No?”

“No,” Malcolm repeated, easing up into a sitting position. Matt got the uncomfortable sense that Malcolm’s eyes were locked onto him. “If your goal was only keeping the city safe, there are better ways to do that. You could get better armor, or hey, you could actually use the armor you _already have_. And you could use something other than hand-to-hand combat if you really wanted to—”

“I’m not a killer.”

“Fine, so don’t use a gun,” Malcolm said dismissively. “But use a _taser_. Or _something_. But you don’t. Which means your goal is something other than just protecting people.” He paused. “Or at least something additional.” He paused again. “You like the pain, don’t you? Or maybe not _like_ , but you _need_ it, don’t you? At least, you think you do.”

Matt stood up. “You think you know me—”

“Because if your pain really didn’t matter one way or the other, you’d protect yourself if only because that would make you more effective at what _does_ matter.”

Matt closed his eyes. “You had it the first time. With the expendability. Stop digging.”

“What is it?” Malcolm insisted. “Penance?”

Matt’s eyes snapped open. “Leave my faith out of your profile.”

Malcolm pushed himself to his feet. The idiot was about to rip his stitches _again_ , but he didn’t seem to care at all. “Maybe you’re not looking for punishment for things you’ve done, but you’re trying to take on whatever punishment the rest of the world deserves, and you think that sounds fair because you have the so-called devil inside you. Is that it?”

Matt opened his mouth, but all his arguments died on his tongue.

“You’re choosing it,” Malcolm said quietly. “You’re choosing to suffer for everyone else’s sins.”

Matt folded his arms tightly across his chest, like that could somehow shield him. He switched tactics, because the more he fought against Malcolm’s conclusion, the more Malcolm came back with _evidence_ , and that was…that was too much. He forced out a harsh laugh. “Fine. Maybe you’re right.”

Malcolm relaxed ever so slightly. “It’s not so—”

“But don’t blame my faith for that,” Matt couldn’t help but add.

Malcolm’s head tilted. “All right,” he said slowly, “maybe your religion didn’t _cause_ your martyr complex. But it enables it, doesn’t it? _Glorifies_ it.”

Enough was enough. Matt narrowed his eyes. “And what about you?”

“What?”

Matt took a step closer—and Malcolm took a step back. “Risking your life, sacrificing your own physical and mental health, all to solve a case. It’s for the victims, isn’t that right?”

Malcolm’s heart beat faster. “It’s my job, I’m just—”

“What is it, some kind of penance for the people your father killed?” Matt’s voice rose despite himself. “You don’t need _religion_ to tell yourself that, you manage it just fine on your own!”

Malcolm breathed out shakily. He turned his face away.

Matt felt a stab of guilt. He wet his lips. “Look, all I’m saying is, it’s not my faith’s fault that I’m like this, because you’re the same way. I think…” He stopped and ran a hand through his hair. “I think the root of it is something good in us, Malcolm.”

Malcolm jerked his head up. “Yeah?”

“It’s…compassion, I think. But it gets out of control, sometimes, and grows into this…” Matt waved his hand vaguely. “This warped version of itself.” He lowered his hand. “I think.”

“Warped,” Malcolm repeated in a whisper, lowering himself back onto the couch. “Sounds about right.”

What, were they suddenly agreeing with each other now? Matt sat cautiously on the seat next to him. “It does?”

“No one’s born broken.” Malcolm’s voice had a strange note to it now, like he was repeating something he’d recited over and over. “Someone breaks us. I guess…” He took a shuddering breath. “I guess we’ve both already been broken.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder: if someone's having a night terror, don't try to wake them up. But if you have reason to believe that the person will try to throw themselves out a window or find a katana, then...maybe you should grab them.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry for the lack of Malcolm POV here, but in my defense, Malcolm TALKS, which means that even scenes where he's not the POV character tend to give us insight into him. Whereas you'll have basically no idea what Matt's actually thinking unless he's the POV character. Ugh.
> 
> Anyway, Malcolm should've remembered that he needed sleep restraints, but what is the point of fanfiction if not to strip characters of everything that brings them security?
> 
> Oh and since AO3's system is currently...doing what it's doing, feel free to follow me on tumblr (https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ceterisparibus116)! I'll post there whenever I update.


	18. Trauma Lingers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYSGUYSGUYSGUYSGUYSGUYSGUYS the amazing stlouisphile not only made this amazing art but also figured out how to upload it to AO3 bc I was very lost and feeling very technically incompetent. Loooook at it!

Matt 

Matt jerked awake to a truly awful recording of a song that was far too peppy for this early in the morning.

_I can see clearly now, the rain is gone!_

_I can see all obstacles in my way!_

Groaning, Matt sat up, feeling sunlight pool on his legs. He hadn’t tried to restart the argument about sleeping over last night, since the night was almost gone by the time they’d stopped talking anyway, but now his skin itched. The result of dried sweat (he needed a shower) and the rough texture of Malcolm’s couch.

There was a soft spitting noise across the room, and a mouthguard went spinning along the floor. “Sorry, sorry…” That was Malcolm’s groggy voice as he unclicked his restraints and stumbled out of bed. He’d had one other nightmare last night, something that had snapped Matt awake with the sounds of him thrashing in bed and his small, choked noises. But his restraints had held, and he hadn’t even woken up.

Matt supposed that counted as a restful night for him.

“Sorry,” Malcolm said one last time, switching off his alarm and the blaring music. “That’s…sorry.”

“Had to get up anyway.” Matt’s words came out gravely, embarrassingly close to his Daredevil voice. “Gotta get to work.”

Malcolm paused on his way to the kitchen. “But you got shot last night.”

Matt laughed dryly. “If I took a personal day every time I got injured, I’d never—”

“You had to dig a _bullet_ out of your _arm!_ ”

“And?” Matt lifted his chin. “Are you going in to work today?”

Malcolm hesitated.

“Even though I’ve had to stitch you up twice in the past six or seven hours?”

When Malcolm finally spoke, there was a hint of a smile in his voice as he gestured placatingly with his hands. “Okay, you got me. We both clearly make terrible life decisions.”

“Not terrible.” Matt stretched and cracked his neck. “Just unorthodox. You, uh, have anything for breakfast?”

This was followed by the popping of several pill bottles, which Matt fervently hoped was not the answer to his question. “Same menu as last night,” Malcolm said eventually. “Licorice. Cheese. Alcohol.”

Matt sniffed. “And bread.” He could work with that. Heightened senses were no disadvantage in the kitchen, and so he fancied himself a decent cook, and had yet to hear an argument to the contrary. Of course, he rarely had many ingredients to work with. But the fact that Matt was used to pulling something delicious together with fewer than five ingredients came in handy this morning, because Malcolm’s kitchen was possibly more barren than Matt’s.

But Malcolm had decent bread in a cupboard, some spices that were admittedly a bit dusty, and some absurdly fancy cheese in his refrigerator. Matt decided on stuffed French toast, which was ready by the time Malcolm changed into a suit. Matt passed him a plate.

Malcolm drew back. “Uh…no thanks.”

Matt frowned. “You need to eat. Especially after everything you went through last night.”

“Not hungry.”

“Your hand’s shaking,” Matt said exasperatedly.

“Oh, that…” Malcolm wrapped his more stable hand around the trembling one. “That’s normal. You eat, though. It…smells good.”

Well, Matt was all too familiar with how lightheaded he could get if he went too long without food, particularly following a fight, and didn’t especially want to waste his energy arguing. However, he privately resolved to leave plenty of food behind for Malcolm in case the profiler changed his mind about nutrients. Finding a fork by touch, Matt whispered a prayer too quietly for Malcolm to hear and started in on his own plate.

It was somewhat awkward, though: eating while his host stood by staring at him. Matt cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something?”

Malcolm busied himself with twisting the lids back onto his bottles of pills. “Sure, what?”

“In the basement, with Jared…” Matt paused and mentally reworded his question. “When I got down there, you had a knife.”

“Oh, yeah. It was Jared’s. He dropped it when he went for his gun.”

Matt gave his head a small, dismissive shake. “Right, but…you were in range.”

“…Range?” For a second, Malcolm sounded lost. Then his breathing hitched as he realized what Matt was really asking.

Matt kept his gaze on his plate. “Why didn’t you use it?”

“Um…” Malcolm rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I didn’t want to?” It came out sounding like a question.

Matt tilted his head enough for Malcolm to see his small, wry smile. “You recall that he stabbed you first. Could’ve killed you.”

“Well, it’s not the first time my life’s been threatened by a killer, so…”

“He put his gun under your chin.”

“It wasn’t cocked,” Malcolm argued. “Well…okay, it _was_ , eventually, but not at first.”

Matt’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief.

“Look,” Malcolm said definitively, “once you start stabbing people, it kinda _turns them off_ from all further discussion, y’know? And between the two of us, I kinda think that your expertise is more in the area of physical violence while mine is in…” He waved his hands vaguely. “Profiling.”

Matt privately thought there was much more to whatever Malcolm did than just profiling. But that wasn’t the priority right now, and besides, Matt could already feel the tension rising in the back of his neck, so it was probably better not to pick a second argument. “So you just let a man stick a gun under your chin.”

“What about you?” Malcolm curled his fingers around the edge of the counter. “What about those guys you took out? The Dogs of Hell?”

Matt stabbed at his French toast a little harder than necessary. “What about them?”

“Just…I was a little too busy with the whole passing out thing to really verify, but I couldn’t help but wonder—morbid curiosity, you could say…actually, no, don’t say that—”

“Malcolm,” Matt interrupted.

“All right, sorry.” Malcolm set his hands on his hips. “Did you kill them?”

Matt dropped his fork. “Come again?”

“Come a—did you _kill them_ , Matt, it’s not that hard of a question.”

“Of course I didn’t! I don’t kill people. I told you that.” And he did not want to have that conversation again. 

“Never?”

Matt felt a flash of phantom heat from Nobu’s burning body. But that had been an accident. And…and he’d technically come back to life, so…well.

No. The fact that his victim was somehow resurrected wouldn’t even be enough to get him off in a court of law, and it definitely wouldn’t hold up with God. And the fact that Matt hadn’t meant to kill _Nobu_ couldn’t possibly matter in light of the fact that he _had_ meant to kill Fisk. Not under the law—the doctrine of transferred intent meant he was still culpable—and not under God.

“Matt.” Malcolm’s heartrate was quietly accelerating during Matt’s prolonged silence.

“No,” Matt said tersely. “No, I’ve never killed anyone.” And then he silently prayed that Malcolm would leave it alone.

But either not even God could stop Malcolm Bright’s mouth from moving, or God wanted Matt to suffer. Frankly, both seemed equally plausible.

“Why not?” Malcolm asked bluntly.

What kind of question was that? “It’s wrong!”

Malcolm leaned closer. “Why?”

 _This_ from the son of a serial killer! Matt was about to snap back with something sarcastic when it hit him.

Maybe if he were the son of a serial killer and he suddenly found himself partnering with a violent vigilante…he’d also need to know the vigilante’s reasons for not crossing that line.

Talking about his religion really shouldn’t be this difficult, it really shouldn’t. “I’m Catholic,” he reminded Malcolm.

“Catholics have been responsible for a lot of killing,” Malcolm observed mildly. “Hey!” he said a second later, raising his hand when Matt stiffened and opened his mouth. “I don’t actually want to argue about the Crusades, believe it or not. Just…tell me about _your_ crusade.”

He was impossible. And Matt hated being under a microscope like this, which Malcolm had to know by now. Matt fidgeted with his fork. “I’ve been taught that we all, by default, fall short of God’s standard of goodness. We’re guilty in His eyes. But we all have a chance to be redeemed. If I…if I kill someone, though, that’s…that’s it. I’m done.” He wet his lips. “And they’re done.”

“They can’t be redeemed? What about purgatory?”

“It’s not the same.” Privately, Matt wasn’t so sure purgatory fit with the rest of what he believed and the nuns had never been able to satisfactorily answer his questions about it. True, there was something appealing about the thought that every weak and immoral thing in him would get burned out. But how did it _work?_ And if all he had to do was grit his teeth and endure the fire, what was he putting his faith in? _Himself?_

In that case, he was already damned.

To no surprise, Malcolm wasn’t leaping to agree to Matt’s brilliant articulation. “Doesn’t religion also say you shouldn’t put on a devil suit and beat people up?”

Matt stifled a groan. “The suit is a symbol.”

“I’m just saying.” Suddenly, Malcolm changed subjects. “Who taught you to fight?”

Matt stiffened. “Excuse me?”

If Malcolm could sense the new tension—of _course_ he could—he ignored it. And Matt couldn’t tell what Malcolm was after with this new line of questioning; the profiler was inscrutable. “Someone must’ve,” Malcolm insisted. “The moves you use? I saw them myself. You don’t get that kind of skill from YouTube. So who taught you?”

Was Matt really that transparent? He felt cold, both at the thought of talking about Stick to Malcolm and at the thought that Malcolm could somehow see Stick’s influence on him. Like Stick’s old, wrinkled hand was forever stamped on Matt’s forehead. He took a deliberate bite of his breakfast and took his time before speaking. “It was, uh…an old man named Stick.”

“What was his deal?”

Matt imagined that not even Malcolm would be able to figure out Stick’s _deal_. “He wanted to train me for some war.”

“What war?”

The last thing Matt wanted to do was try to convince Malcolm that parts of New York occasionally housed small hordes of ninjas. Matt just shrugged. “He never told me when I was a kid.” Which, technically, was true.

“Kid,” Malcolm echoed, quiet and cautious. “You were a kid.”

Matt rubbed some of his fingers nervously together, focusing on the sensation and not on Malcolm’s worried heartbeat.

Malcolm cleared his throat. “Is he still around?”

“You can’t tell?” Matt snapped, then immediately held up a hand because the _actual_ last thing he wanted was to know that Malcolm could somehow see that Matt had scared Stick off by _getting attached_. “Forget it.”

“You don’t like him,” Malcolm noted.

Matt shook his head sharply. “I owe him. Without him, I never would’ve been able to—”

“He wasn’t a good person, though,” Malcolm interrupted. “Was he?”

Matt sighed. “What makes you say that?”

“Your posture,” Malcolm said, and Matt realized he’d unconsciously straightened up. “Your fist,” Malcolm added, and Matt realized he’d clenched his fist at his side. “You know,” Malcolm went on, “one of my teammates was a soldier. Or…still is, really. Some of that never really goes away. He gets rigid, sometimes, if I bring it up. But then there’s your fist, like you’re upset. The question is, are you upset at Stick himself, or at what he made you do?”

That would never not be impressive. And unnerving. “You’re close,” Matt murmured. “It’s what he tried to make me do.”

Malcolm’s silence was politely questioning; he didn’t demand further explanation.

But Matt wasn’t counting on that silence to last. “Killing,” he said shortly.

Now Malcolm nodded gently. “I thought so. You don’t kill because of your religion, yes, but also because…you don’t want to be like him?”

“Probably,” Matt muttered. He shifted, uncomfortable. “But really, my faith has to pull more than its fair share. I’m already so much like Stick that sometimes I…” He couldn’t believe he was admitting this. Out loud. “Sometimes I think it’s too late for me anyway.”

And there it was: Malcolm’s heartrate speeding up as he guessed at everything Matt wasn’t saying. Malcolm’s breathing changed as he decided to say something about that. “You help people.”

“I hurt them, too.”

“Because some people won’t stop unless someone makes them stop.”

Matt shook his head again. “Not that simple. If you hadn’t been hurt when Jared ran, I would’ve…”

“Would’ve what?”

“I wouldn’t have been very satisfied with handcuffing him. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“Have you ever, um…” Malcolm started drumming his fingers nervously on the counter “Have you ever gotten close?”

Matt pressed his lips together. Nodded, and hoped Malcolm wouldn’t ask for details.

He should really know better by now. “Why?”

Matt folded his hands together and squeezed. “We had a client,” he began, curt, telling himself to just give the facts and nothing more. “Elderly woman. Pretty much only spoke Spanish. Lived in the shittiest apartment complex you could imagine. She and her neighbors, they all had to work together. One had hot water, another had gas, that kind of thing. But one man…he was already responsible for death and suffering throughout the city, but—”

“Wilson Fisk?” Malcolm guessed.

Matt nodded shortly. “He wanted those properties. Wanted to turn them into a high-rise. Didn’t care that none of the people living there wanted to leave.” He kept his breathing steady. “So he killed our client. To send a message. And…” He clenched his jaw. “To get my attention.”

“Oh,” Malcolm said quietly.

“So, yeah.” Matt forced the words out past gritted teeth. “I wanted to kill him.”

Malcolm’s hands stilled. “Did you?”

“No.” Matt raised his eyes towards the ceiling, and towards heaven beyond. “But not for lack of trying.”

The silence between them now had changed into something heavy.

Well, Matt had to ask. “What about you? You ever, uh…”

Malcolm gave a forced laugh. “I look like I can beat someone to death?”

Actually, yes. It wasn’t that hard if you knew where to hit. But that wasn’t what Matt was asking. “Your father never beat anyone to death either, but he was still effective.”

Malcolm cleared his throat. “Right. I know his methods, obviously. We all studied him in my classes. But I…I used to visit him. When I was in school.”

His heartrate skipped. “Used to?” Matt echoed.

“I stopped. It wasn’t good for me. But, um…working with Gil, sometimes my…my father has some…insights to share. For cases.”

“He’s helping you,” Matt said dumbly.

Malcolm’s voice turned cold. “Not from the goodness of his heart, I can tell you that. All he wants is to pretend he has a relationship with me.”

Matt frowned. “So you’re using him.” Let the Surgeon feel like a father again in exchange for tips on how to catch other killers.

“Yeah, well, I wish…” He trailed off.

“Wish what?”

Malcolm didn’t say anything.

“Wish what?”

“I wish it was that simple,” Malcolm said at last, his voice almost painfully heavy. “But I know there’s still…still some part of me that wants the same thing. Wants him to be my father.” He rubbed at his forehead and groaned. “Don’t judge me.”

Matt raised his eyebrows, so incredulous that he was half-tempted to smile. “I just told you I tried to kill someone, and you think I’ll judge you for wanting a relationship with your dad?”

Malcolm’s scoff was low and bitter. “My _serial killer_ dad.”

Well. Matt very much wanted to be somewhere—anywhere—else, and talking about something—anything—else, but Malcolm wore guilt like a jacket and this was a new style. Did he really feel guilty over wanting to have a normal relationship with his own father?

Matt still wasn’t sure he could say anything that wouldn’t make things worse, but it felt heartless and ungrateful to sit passively while Malcolm wrestled with himself like this. And maybe Matt wouldn’t have any magic words to change his worldview, but what if he could set Malcolm up to…convince himself?

And so Matt closed his eyes and recited: “Stick was in my life for less than a year, and he did nothing but try to twist me into being a soldier. He was gone for twenty years, and when he came back, he roped me into a mission where he killed a child. Couldn’t have been more than ten years old. Then he disappeared _again_ , and when he was back, he was trying to kill my—” No, better not to even try to explain Elektra. He swallowed. “He just. He kept killing. Now, I don’t know for certain, but I’d be shocked if he took out fewer than twenty-three people.”

“For a war,” Malcolm muttered. “Misguided, I guess, but still. My father killed for the _thrill_.”

“You’re missing the point. I’m not saying Stick was just as bad as your father. I’m just saying, he was…” Matt bit his lip. “But when he died…”

“He died?” Malcolm hesitated. “I’m sorry, Matt.”

There. Matt cocked his head. “Sorry? What for? I just told you what kind of person he was.”

Malcolm shifted his weight. “Well, yeah, but…you’re clearly upset.”

It felt a bit uncomfortable, setting up the trap like this, but it was for Malcolm’s own good. He hoped. “But I shouldn’t be, right? After what he did, I have no reason to mourn his loss.”

“Matt.” Malcolm moved in closer, voice gentling. “He may have done bad things, but you still formed a connection with him as a child. It’s perfectly normal to…to wish things were different, somehow.”

Matt raised his eyebrows a little.

“Oh,” Malcolm said.

Silence fell, but it was companionable this time. Confident that whatever psychological lessons Malcolm was telling himself right now would be far more effective at convincing him than anything else Matt could say, Matt concentrated on finishing his French toast.

Until he abruptly realized that he had no idea what time it was. “Uh, Malcolm—”

“You gotta go,” Malcolm interpreted effortlessly, giving himself a small shake like he was shedding the heaviness of their conversation. He darted across the room and returned with surprising speed to hand Matt the hoodie from last night. “But, um…” A hopeful tone crept into his voice. “Maybe we should meet up again soon? Figure out where to go next?”

“What about tonight?”

The smile in Malcolm’s voice would’ve been obvious even without enhanced senses. “Sure. If you wanna meet here again, I promise I’ll have actual food.”

Matt allowed himself a smile in return. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

~

Malcolm

Malcolm’s phone started vibrating in his pocket just as he was coming up to the precinct.

_Clairmont Psychiatric._

He hit ignore, and next came the predictable pang of guilt and regret. But this time, he didn’t instinctively stuff it down. Matt was right: it was okay to wish things were different with his father, even as he ignored his calls. He didn’t need to feel guilty, but it was okay to feel regret.

And…oh. Now that he was taking the time to look, there was possibly a bit of anger mixed in there, too.

That, well, that wasn’t so nice. Malcolm didn’t generally think of himself as an angry person.

Anyway.

He stopped right outside the precinct, taking just a second to make sure he was ready for this. He wasn’t, though.

He still remembered what it was like walking back in after John Watkins kidnapped him. The stares, the whispers. Nothing Malcolm wasn’t used to from when he was a kid, still going by the name of Whitly, when everyone knew his father was a serial killer. But maybe that was exactly why it was so hard to deal with now: he was a grown-up, his name was Bright, he wasn’t _supposed_ to be the thing everyone was talking about anymore.

(If the DA had her way, this was what the rest of Malcolm’s life would be like.)

Malcolm lifted his chin. Nothing was gonna get to him today.

He pushed through the doors, took the elevator to his floor, and, yep, he was immediately the cent of attention. Everyone staring. A few of them wandering closer, locked and loaded with questions.

Why couldn’t they all have been this attentive back when he’d been hobbling around here with a sprained ankle?

Gil was the one to finally break it up. “All right, everyone,” he barked, “that’s enough. Back to work.”

Malcolm’s colleagues scattered, but slowly, with a few of them craning their necks to look back. They were like a flock of pigeons. Gil might’ve shooed them away for now, but they’d be back.

Gil, meanwhile, clapped his hand protectively over the back of Malcolm’s neck as he herded Malcolm into his office and all but pushed Malcolm into the seat in front of the desk. Gil didn’t take his own chair, though; he leaned against the desk, facing Malcolm with his arms folded.

This was looking more and more like an intervention. Clearly, Malcolm needed to cut Gil off with a confident, persuasive, well-reasoned argument about why Gil had no need to worry and absolutely should not treat the situation as anything unusual.

He opened his mouth and said, “I’m fine.”

He might as well have said nothing at all for all the reaction Gil gave. Gil simply started into his own speech: “You know, kid, I’ve seen you pull a lot of stupid stunts in your time with the NYPD.”

“You’ve also seen me put away a lot of horrible people,” Malcolm pointed out helpfully.

Gil’s forehead creased. It was his _conflicted_ look. He wore it around Malcolm at least once a day. “You know I respect the hell out of your profiles. But what you’re doing now…”

“I’m working a case.”

“Fine. And you know what?” The conflicted look intensified. “Maybe I was wrong, before, to tell you the team wasn’t gonna help you. The DA wouldn’t have liked it, but—”

Whoa, no. “She’s _insane_. You needed to stay on her good side—you were right about that.”

“Not if it means you’ll make a wanted vigilante your new teammate and end up like…” Gil gestured at Malcolm, almost desperately. “Like _this_.”

“I told you, I’m—”

“ _Don’t_ say you’re fine.”

Malcolm fell silent.

Gil dropped his eyes to somewhere around Malcolm’s shoes. “If everything that happened between you and Jared Worthington is true, that means he must be Gregory’s killer. We have enough evidence for probable cause, at least. Now, I _can’t_ issue a city-wide bolo or even ask for a warrant, not without pissing off our royal DA prematurely. What I _can_ do is bump this up in priority—but just for our team.”

There was a tiny part of Malcolm that _melted_ at everything Gil was offering. But the rest of him recoiled. “Gil, no. she’ll find out, and then it’ll be your head she’s after.”

“I can handle whatever she thinks she can throw at me.”

“You don’t have to put yourself at risk just to help me.”

To Malcolm’s surprise, Gil’s eyes became sad. “It’s called being on a team, kid. I really thought by now you’d understand that.”

Malcolm’s shoulders hunched despite himself. “Gil, I…” He trailed off.

Gil waited for a protest that Malcolm couldn’t formulate.

Malcolm sighed. “All right. All right, fine. You can…help, I guess.”

Gil tilted his head, one eyebrow raised. “And the rest of the team?”

“They can help, too,” Malcolm mumbled. Then he straightened up. “But, Gil, I’m serious—I can’t tell you about…”

“About Daredevil,” Gil finished quietly.

“I _can’t_. I know his activities are _technically_ criminal, but if you arrested him, it would…it would ruin his life.”

“Jail tends to do that,” Gil remarked.

Malcolm set his jaw. “He’s doing the right thing. He’s helping people. Promise me you’ll respect that.”

Gil got up slowly. “I’m a lieutenant with the NYPD. I can’t close my eyes to something right in front of my face. _But_ ,” he added when Malcolm stiffened up, “I can put some blinders on.” He walked close enough to sling an arm around Malcolm’s shoulder. “You’ve got heart, kid. And guts. And I’m proud of you.”

Malcolm tried not to look too obviously like he’d just teleported to cloud nine.

“We’ll meet in the conference room at eleven. Go tell the team, and then make sure you have all your facts organized.” He slid his arm back to squeeze the back of Malcolm’s neck. “We’ll bring this guy in, Bright. I promise.”


	19. Secrets

Malcolm

Malcolm leaned into Gil’s hold for one second. Then he nodded. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he stepped out of Gil’s office and came face-to-face with Dani.

 _Dani_.

Oh, no.

Her eyes were wide, mouth half-parted as she took him in. “Bright! Gil said—”

“I’m fine,” he assured her.

“He said you were _kidnapped!_ ”

Malcolm felt a rush of discomfort at the fact that Gil had shared the knowledge, but just as immediately, he heard Gil’s voice echoing in his ear: _It’s called being on a team, kid_. Swallowing his pride, Malcolm nodded. “Yeah, I was. But it’s fine, it was just part of the case. And I got useful information.”

She stared at him like he was speaking a foreign language. “Useful information.”

“Yeah! Our killer, Jared Worthington, he wants to kill again. His biological father this time, but—”

“Where is he?” she cut in.

“Oh, uh…” Malcolm hesitated. “He got away.”

“Right.” Dani pursed her lips. “So…someone scared him off.”

Malcolm couldn’t quite tell if that was a statement or a question, so he just tried to blink innocently at her.

One look at her face, and it was obvious she wasn’t buying it. “Who found you?”

“Um, well…”

“Who found you?” she demanded. “Because I was on the streets _all night_ , I questioned _every lead_ , I—” Her voice cracked.

“Dani, no.” He wanted to reach for her, but he felt like he’d lost that privilege (if he’d ever had it). “Another day or two and I’m sure you would’ve found me, I just—”

She jerked her chin up. “Would you have still been alive?”

There she was again with her zinger questions. “Um,” he said weakly.

She wet her lips. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” She took a step closer. “So who was it, Bright? Who found you?”

“I told you, I can’t—”

“You mean you won’t.” She blinked twice. “You lied to me when you called, didn’t you? When you said I had to watch over Violet instead of helping you find your guy?”

“I wasn’t lying,” Malcolm said pleadingly. “I was just…I didn’t want you caught up in this.”

Her eyes flashed. “Why not?”

His mouth opened, but he couldn’t explain it.

She shoved her hands into her pockets. “You know, I really thought—” She cut herself off sharply. “Forget it. I have to get back to work, I have other cases.”

“Dani.” He caught her arm and she didn’t immediately back-elbow his face for it, which he took as a good sign. “ _Listen_ , please. I’d tell you, I would, it’s just…it’s not my secret to share. It’s not that I don’t trust you or—”

“Who said this was about trust?” She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. “That’s right. You did.” She tugged against his grip. “Let go of me, Bright.”

His heart sank. He let go.

~

Matt

Matt was late to work.

Which was, unfortunately, not uncommon. He was slightly optimistic that perhaps Foggy would be more forgiving in light of the fact that Matt was late because he’d had to rescue someone…but Matt _wouldn’t_ have been late if he’d gone home last night like he was supposed to, instead of waking up after the sun had risen and having breakfast and then scrambling to get across town to his place just to grab a suit (not even giving himself time to shower) and _then_ hurrying to the office.

So Matt was late to work, and he also was acutely aware of the fact that he hadn’t even gotten anything done for any of their cases yesterday. He’d been so focused on finding the real killer and, later, on finding Malcolm, that he’d been neglecting their case load.

The thing was, this wasn’t exactly the first time Matt had lost sight of the mundanities of a case in the interest of chasing the criminals connected to it. And so Matt was fully expecting a lecture when he got to the office.

He would just have to…not mention his plans to meet Malcolm again that evening.

As soon as he opened the door to the office, he heard both Foggy and Karen’s heartrates and temperatures rise, and an instant later, they were on him.

“What the hell, Murdock?” Foggy greeted him.

That was…slightly more aggressive than Matt had been anticipating. He quickly propped his cane in the corner of the room and turned to face his friends. “Listen, I know I’ve been distracted recently, but last night—”

“Stop for five seconds, take a breath, and tell us why you think _DA Allen_ decided to pay us a visit right when _you_ , conveniently, _weren’t here_.”

Matt stopped, as instructed, and also took a breath, as instructed, and caught Allen’s lingering scent. Paper, coffee, expensive perfume, a hint of cigarette smoke, and the cologne of some judge she must’ve rubbed shoulders with that morning. “What was she doing here?”

Foggy’s voice was icy. “Oh, you know, just dropped by for a friendly chat about _Daredevil.”_

Matt’s stomach dropped. “…What?”

“They found DNA,” Karen explained. She sounded more worried than angry for the moment, but that could (and would, probably) change. “At Violet Worthington’s house. It matches DNA in their system that they suspect belongs to Daredevil.”

“Okay, but—why would she come _here?_ ”

Karen pushed her hair nervously behind her ears. “She’s looking into everyone and everything that has connections to Daredevil.”

“And guess what, buddy,” Foggy said sourly. “Our firm is at the top of the list. I _think_ I managed to cover for you okay, but that’s probably just wishful thinking on my part.”

“But—all right.” Matt pressed his fingers against his forehead, trying to stave off panic. “Any connection between our firm and Daredevil is pure speculation at this point. It’s just an investigation, not—”

“They have your DNA on a case that _we’ve_ taken!” Foggy shouted. “That’s not a _speculative_ connection, Matt!”

“Foggy, neighbors,” Karen hissed.

Matt gritted his teeth. “All right, but—”

“And it’s not _just_ an investigation! What happens—okay.” Foggy took a deep breath and, with apparently great effort, brought his voice down to a more secretive volume. “What happens if the police get a warrant to search your apartment?”

“Why would they—” Matt started to scoff.

“You’ve been framed before,” Karen reminded him flatly.

“By _Fisk_ , who was _running the FBI_ ,” Matt snapped, starting to get angry in return. Not because he thought Foggy and Karen were wrong, but…because they were probably right.

Foggy swept on. “And we’re lucky the truth about the corruption came out before whatever DNA they got from your apartment was processed. The sample must’ve degraded by now, but—”

“Right,” Matt cut in, “so we don’t have to worry.”

This was met with dead silence.

“…We don’t have to panic,” Matt amended carefully.

Foggy threw up his hands. “A prosecuting attorney showed up _at the office_ because she thinks _we_ , _specifically_ , are more likely to know something about Daredevil! How hard do you think it’d be for her to get probable cause for another search warrant? And once she’s in your apartment, need I remind you that your couch is soaked in enough blood to cure my aunt’s anemia?”

“That’s not how anemia works,” Matt muttered.

Foggy swore loudly.

Which was…fair. That was fair.

Matt shifted his weight. “I’m sorry, Foggy. And Karen,” he added when she inhaled sharply. “I should’ve told you, but there were other—”

Foggy held up a hand. “Wait— _told us?_ ”

Matt felt his fight-or flight response trying to kick in. It never did seem able to distinguish between a physical threat and an…interpersonal one. “About…about the DNA.”

Foggy’s voice turned deadly. “You _knew?_ ”

Matt’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly a few times before he managed to say, “Malcolm knew. He told me. He warned me.”

Foggy turned away with his hands on his hips, head hanging, muttering so quickly under his breath that not even Matt could catch what he was saying.

Karen touched Matt’s arm. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

He was not fooled by the gentleness of the gesture. “I just…that was right after Malcolm and Foggy ended up at the hospital, I didn’t want to add another—”

“We were completely blindsided!” Foggy shouted, whirling around. “And although I’d be flattered if I thought you kept me in the dark because you just innately trusted my brilliant lawyering abilities, that’s not the real reason you didn’t say anything, so now I’m pretty much just pissed at you.”

“I’m _sorry_ , Foggy,” Matt said desperately. “What else do you want me to say?”

“Nothing, Matt.” Foggy’s voice was soaked in disappointment. “Nothing. As usual.”

Then he turned and walked wordlessly into his office, where he shut the door and didn’t come out for the rest of the day.

~

So, drinking alone was a bad idea. They’d warned him about this in law school. Apparently, the stats for lawyers mixing with alcohol were all pretty bleak. But most of his professional colleagues probably had _very_ different reasons for turning to alcohol. Definitely not almost-got-my-two-best-friends-arrested-for-not-telling-them-the-DA-got- _this_ - _close_ -to-figuring-out-I’m-a-vigilante. Definitely not that.

So, when Matt left the office after having gotten basically nothing accomplished during the day (not _his_ fault; Foggy periodically muttered under his breath all the things he’d apparently wanted to say during the argument, and anyone would find it hard to concentrate past that), he kinda just told himself that, y’know, all those warnings didn’t apply.

He didn’t go to Josie’s, though. Didn’t want her questions about where his better halves were, even though that didn’t even make sense as a mathematical question. Didn’t wanna hear her heartrate flutter with concern that she’d never voice. Didn’t wanna feel the weight of her eyes watching him across the bar. Worried.

Aaaand he’d rather not puke in her bathroom, if it came to that.

The thing was, this wasn’t even…that bad. Or, just, he didn’t know why it was hitting him this hard. It wasn’t like this was the first fight he’d had with Foggy. And the thing with the DA, he could figure out how to fix it. He didn’t know _how_ , but he’d think of something. He always did. And Foggy and Karen would forgive him for the lie. They always did.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe Matt just hated needing forgiveness.

Maybe. He didn’t really know, and his thoughts were too dulled by alcohol to piece together whatever the real problem was.

Better this way anyway.

His phone buzzed.

Foggy, probably. Matt ignored it and finished his drink. Raised his hand, ordered another.

His phone buzzed again.

Damnit, Foggy.

He shifted his weight. This barstool was awful.

He sensed his phone’s vibrations an instant before it started chirping a name: “ _Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright.”_

Oh—damnit. Matt scrambled to answer. “H’llo?” he asked, wincing at the slur in his own voice and wondering how obvious it was to anyone without enhanced hearing.

“Where are you?” Malcolm replied.

“Um…” Matt wet his lips. He wasn’t actually sure what this place was called. Not like he could see the sign, and he hadn’t been picky enough to google it. All he’d needed to know was that it smelled like cheap alcohol.

A pause. “I thought we were meeting at my place.”

“Yeah, that…” Matt pushed his glasses up to rub at his eyes. “That sounds right. Sorry, I’m…m’coming.”

“Are you okay?” Malcolm asked hesitantly. “You sound…”

“M’fine.” Matt shoved himself off the barstool and miraculously did not faceplant into anything. “M’coming.”

~

Malcolm

The Matt that showed up at his door was not the Matt Malcolm was expecting. Matt wore a gray suit like he’d come from work, but he’d tugged his tie loose unbuttoned the top two buttons, and he was leaning heavily on his cane like he actually needed it. His face was flushed under his red lenses, and Malcolm didn’t exactly have an enhanced sense of smell, but Matt definitely smelled like he’d spent about half a day at a bar somewhere.

So Malcolm figured Matt’s day had been about as bad as his. But while Malcolm had squeezed in an emergency session with Gabrielle (who insisted he wasn’t responsible for Dani’s issues, a reminder that he found spectacularly unhelpful) after work, Matt had apparently gone with a more _classic_ form of therapy.

Cheaper, too.

“Whoa,” Malcolm said, stepping aside to let him in. “You okay?”

“M’fine,” was Matt’s predictable response. “Sorry m’late. What’re we, um…” He trailed off, head tilting towards Sunshine’s cage.

“Next steps,” Malcolm reminded him slowly. “We were going to talk about what to do next. Like how to find Jared or his father.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah.” Matt drew himself up, which looked like it took a bit more concentration than it should’ve. “Agreed.”

He was definitely not okay. And not just because of how drunk he was. “Hey, Matt? What happened today?”

“Work,” Matt mumbled, and started reciting what sounded like a legal statute under his breath.

Okay, then. “Well, c’mon.” Malcolm steered him into the apartment, nudging Matt towards one of the chairs at the counter. “Here.” He set a glass of water on the counter and dropped a few meds next to it, trusting that the man who’d picked the lock to Jared Worthington’s house would be able to find a few pills on a flat surface. “Water and aspirin. It’ll make you feel better.”

Matt acknowledged exactly none of this. His empty gaze looked fixed on the countertop and his voice was emotionless when he said, more than asked, “D’you have friends.”

Malcolm scratched at his jaw. “Um. I mean, I think so.”

Matt’s eyebrows tightened for a moment. “Your team?” he guessed.

Malcolm sighed. “Yeah.” His team. That was it. Well, there was Vijay, back for a few seconds and then gone again. There was Ainsley, but he figured being his sister meant she’d been kind of conscripted into the whole friend thing. So…just the team, pretty much.

“How long?” Matt asked.

Where was he going with this? He was obviously going _somewhere_. “Less than a year,” Malcolm answered cautiously.

Matt’s face shifted with something Malcolm could only describe as devastation. He bit down hard on his lower lip.

“Hey, hey.” No idea what else to do, Malcolm put a hand on his shoulder, and he could’ve sworn Matt leaned into it for a split second before going totally stiff. “What’s wrong?”

Matt gave a single, loud sniff and worked his jaw. When he spoke, his voice was brittle. “I guess I was just hoping for advice from someone with more _experience_.”

Experience with…friends?

Oh.

Well, ouch.

“Is this about Foggy?” Malcolm asked. “Or Karen?”

“Psychology,” Matt blurted out suddenly.

“What?”

“Didn’t you study psychology? That includes…that includes friends, right? Friendships. Basically.”

“I studied _criminological_ psych,” Malcolm corrected reluctantly. “And…and abnormal psych. I’m not a clinical psychologist or a…a therapist.”

Matt shrugged the shoulder under Malcolm’s hand until Malcolm got the hint and stopped touching him.

“Look, Matt,” Malcolm began awkwardly, with absolutely no idea how he was planning on finishing that sentence.

But then Matt turned, sightless eyes locking onto him with startling accuracy. “You’re a profiler.”

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. “…Yeah.”

“You read people.”

“I…try to, yeah.”

“You’re _good_ at it.”

“I’d like to think so,” Malcolm said nervously.

Matt’s eyes seemed to search Malcolm’s face. They darted away for a split second, and then they were back, wide and desperate. “Profile me.”

Malcolm choked on saliva. “What?”

“Or don’t, forget it, it’s stupid.” Matt’s eyes dropped down and he turned away, curling in on himself where he sat on the chair.

Malcolm thought of Eve, quietly breaking under the weight of the things he’d seen in her. And Dani, shutting him out in horror when he’d tried to read her. “What, uh…” He gave up looking for the right way to word the question and just asked: “What is it you want to hear right now?”

Matt’s short laugh was harsh and bitter. “An answer.”

“And…what exactly is the question?”

“Why I’m not—why I can’t—” Matt swallowed hard. “Why I do the same thing _every time_.” His voice rose suddenly. “Why I’m like _this!_ ”

The ragged words rang through Malcolm’s too-big apartment. His feet were frozen to the ground and he had no idea what to do. What would Gabrielle do? Ask thoughtful, probing questions? But Matt wasn’t looking for counseling. He wanted an _autopsy_.

And the thing was, once you had both pieces—Matt Murdock, attorney at law, and the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen—he wasn’t exactly hard to read. Okay, the Catholic thing had thrown Malcolm off for a second, but he was pretty sure he’d figured out how it fit in by now. Which meant Malcolm could give Matt exactly what he was asking for.

But it felt wrong. This wasn’t like this morning, poking at Matt’s faith (and the temptation to kill people) over stuffed French toast. Tonight, Matt’s eyes were glazed from both drunkenness and growing despair.

Malcom let out a slow breath. “Matt…”

“ _What?_ ” he tried to snarl, but his voice cracked pitifully halfway through.

Malcolm lowered his voice. “I can’t. You wouldn’t be asking me this if you weren’t drunk. So I can’t.”

Matt’s mouth opened, but then his forehead creased and he couldn’t seem to come up with anything to say.

Malcolm nudged his glass closer. “Drink your water.”

Those sightless, hazel eyes were dull. Defeated. But Matt drank his water and didn’t ask again.

Didn’t say anything really, and Malcolm worried for a second that he might’ve broken him. Well, more than he was already broken. Especially when his head tilted and he got a weird look, eyebrows pinched together, sightless eyes apparently boring a hole in the wall.

“Uh, Matt…?”

“Someone’s coming,” he murmured, still tense. A second later, his eyes widened. “It’s your mom.”

Oh, the face thing was a sensing thing, probably. Wait. “But—how do _you_ know?”

“Hospital,” Matt said, like that explained anything.

“You talked to her?” Because that would make this a _lot_ easier.

But Matt shook his head. “Didn’t think I had permission.”

Malcolm wasn’t totally sure what that meant, but he was _very_ sure that he couldn’t let Jessica see Matt. Not when Matt was like this, anyway. She’d have questions they couldn’t answer and she’d try to _fix_ him. Them. “C’mon, Matt. She can’t know you’re here.”

“Can’t you just…not let her in?”

“Oh, she’ll get in,” Malcolm said grimly. He still wasn’t sure how she’d gotten in after the last time he changed the locks, but she’d found a way. “C’mon, get up.”

Matt groaned quietly, but he allowed Malcolm to nudge him to his feet. “Where’m I going?”

Malcolm thought fast. “Upstairs,” he decided, sticking close to Matt’s side even though Matt managed to turn in the right direction by himself. He’d have to ask sometime how intoxication affected how he saw the world. For now, the priority was just getting him out of sight. But Malcolm hesitated as Matt started up the stairs, and Matt paused like he could sense it. “Nothing,” Malcolm said, deciding quickly not to warn Matt about staying out of Malcolm’s supplies upstairs. Some of them were…well, some of them were records and things of the Surgeon’s methods. But it wasn’t like Matt could read them. Right? “Just stay up there,” Malcolm said firmly, relieved when Matt simply nodded and continued making his way upstairs.

Whew. Okay. Malcolm braced himself and opened the front door as soon as he heard Jessica’s sharp knock.

She came sailing right on in, quickly taking in the place. Malcolm didn’t even know what she was looking for (murder weapons? Blood stains? Something he’d forgotten to dust?) but he hoped she wasn’t wanting to find evidence of a vigilante presence.

The thing was, Gil and Jessica were…well, Malcolm wasn’t sure what they were, but there was _something_ there. He wasn’t really sure what to think of it, so he tried not to think about it at all, but he couldn’t turn off the profiling. Point was, it would be a surprise if Gil _hadn’t_ mentioned to Jessica that Malcolm was running around playing spy (and, well, getting hurt) with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

She finally faced Malcolm, satisfied (for now) with the state of the place, and reached out to cup his cheek in her hand. “And how _are_ you, dear?”

He smiled, and it was only slightly exasperated as he pulled away from her touch. “I’m fine, Mother. Slept a whole five hours last night. Not consecutively, true, but let’s not stress over details.”

“You were _kidnapped!_ ”

Gil.

Her deep blue eyes searched his face. “Are you sure you’re coping?”

His smile was probably a bit weak now. “Um…coping?”

“Because you certainly didn’t cope last time.”

Oh, great. He spread his hands. “I solved a murder, mother. It’s the best coping mechanism out there. You saw me, I was _happy_.”

Her eyebrows were highly unimpressed. “Solving a case may make you happy in the short term, but I’m worried about how this will affect your mental health in the long run.”

Well, the last thing he needed was for her to arrange another flight for him to go to some island somewhere—this time with a bodyguard, probably, to make sure he stayed put. He took a gamble: “Actually…I’m having someone over tonight.”

Her eyes lit up. “A girl, maybe?”

“Just a friend.”

Jessica hummed thoughtfully. “It’s been a while, you know. A relationship outside of work might be just what you need. You only _kind_ of had that with Eve, before we figured out—”

“Mother,” he said warningly.

She gave him her best innocent-but-defensive, _why would you ever use that tone of voice, I’m not even saying anything_ look. “I’m just saying, you could do with some, you know, actual friends. I mean, remind me—when was the last time you had one that wasn’t directly connected to murder?”

Malcolm shifted his weight, uncomfortably aware of the fact that Matt could absolutely hear every word. Unless he’d miraculously passed out, that’d be nice.

“But, then, I suppose pigs would have to fly.” With a beleaguered sigh, she dug into her purse and pressed something into his hands. “A new phone. One that I hope you’ll be able to use for at least a few weeks before someone violent gets ahold of it. Malcolm, you _have_ to stop throwing yourself into trouble like this.”

“I chase killers, Mother. It’s my job.”

“And we’ve talked about this. You, running around, surrounding yourself with people who remind you of your father…”

Malcolm bristled. “I _surround myself_ with my team.”

“But you’re a _profiler!_ You don’t dive into the minds of your teammates, you dive into the minds of _serial killers_.” She folded her arms across her chest. “You may spend your _time_ hanging around your so-called team—”

Wait, so-called?

“—but your _mind_ never gets a break from murder.”

So-called?

She bit her lip, forehead creasing guiltily. “Oh, Malcolm. I just mean—”

“I think I know what you mean.”

Hurt flashed across her face. She was so good at being hurt. And he could understand that, intellectually. If he’d sacrificed as much as she had just to try to give her children lives that were separate from the Surgeon’s influence, he’d probably be just as sensitive. And he cared about her, he really did, and didn’t want to see her in pain. It was just…hard, sometimes.

“Have you heard from him?” she asked, tentatively, quiet as a small mouse.

Aside from a few unanswered phone calls and unlistened-to voicemails…. He shook his head.

She breathed a sigh of obvious relief. “Good. Maybe he’s finally gotten the message that he’s not your father. Not in any way that matters.”

Malcolm glanced down. Her shoes were nice. Spotless.

Her fingers lightly lifted his chin. “You don’t agree?”

Malcolm wished he could get out from under her scrutinizing stare.

“Is it still…are you still feeling guilty about not stopping him sooner?”

Not trusting himself to speak, Malcolm risked a single nod.

Setting her shoulders back, she took a deep, steadying breath. “It was never your fault, Malcolm. It was _mine_. I should’ve seen who he was. I should’ve seen what he was doing.”

“He never let you get that close,” Malcolm pointed out quietly.

She drew herself up. “I was his _wife_.”

“He didn’t invite you down to the basement for anatomy lessons, did he?” Malcolm shot back, clenching his fist. It hadn’t started trembling yet, but it was only a matter of time with this conversation. “He was teaching me all the most vulnerable parts on a human body when I was _seven_ , like in a couple years I’d graduate to lessons about how to take advantage of those parts. He didn’t do that for you, or for Ainsley. He did it for _me_. He chose _me_.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth.

“He chose me,” he repeated raggedly. “And I don’t know why.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drunk!Matt. Drop a comment if u agree.  
> (Also, we PS fans need to see High!Malcolm again, and I will twist the plot into a pretzel to justify it.)


	20. Own Flesh and Blood

Malcolm

Jessica closed her eyes tight. “Oh, Malcolm…it wasn’t because of anything to do with you.”

She could say that. But she couldn’t know for sure.

“He just wanted a _legacy_ , you know how he is.”

“Then why not Ainsley?”

“He’s a misogynist,” she said exasperatedly. “You’re his _son_.”

Malcolm tightened his jaw. “That’s right. I am.”

Dismay flashed immediately across her face. “Oh, you know I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” he said shortly. But that didn’t make it any easier to hear.

She hurried to change the subject. “Well, Gil also said that he and the rest of your…” She kind of flapped her hand, “ _team_ will be helping you with this case from now on. Why weren’t they before?”

“Uh…” Malcolm didn’t know what to say. He definitely didn’t need Jessica knowing that he was partnering up with a masked vigilante, and he _especially_ didn’t want Jessica knowing about the threat the DA was holding over his head. She’d stubbornly kept the Whitly name, but she was also slaving to restore honor to the name. And not just by being a socialite like he’d first assumed, but by making heaps of donations to different charities.

If the DA exposed _Malcolm_ , all that work would come crashing down.

“Malcolm?” Her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t as good at seeing through him as Gil, which was a bit of a relief, but she wasn’t bad either.

“Just…office politics,” he dodged. It wasn’t even a lie, not really. “Anyway, good news is, I’m about ninety percent confident that I won’t get kidnapped again.”

“Because you won’t be going anywhere _alone?_ ”

He flashed a smile. “Because getting kidnapped three times in one lifetime would wreck the bell curve.”

Her small scoff sounded like she’d meant it to be disgusted, but it came out more worried. “So you _will_ be going off alone to fight…killers and gang members?”

“I’m not fighting anyone,” he assured her.

“You know what I mean! Why does _your_ life have to be the only one you don’t care about protecting?”

“You know why,” he said quietly.

“But none of it was your fault!”

He just shrugged. They’d had this argument a hundred times already; one more round wasn’t gonna change either of their minds.

She drew herself up. “Fine,” she said coldly. “I’ll talk to Gil. He wants you to have more support. Better support.”

 _Better?_ Malcolm tensed, waiting for Jessica to say something about vigilantes.

“He’ll make sure you at least _act_ like you have some sense of self-preservation,” she swept on, sounding as usual like no one else would ever quite know how hard it was to be his mother.

But the important thing was, it sounded like Gil hadn’t mentioned Daredevil. Even Gil must’ve realized Jessica would never sleep again if she knew her son was teaming up with someone like that. So Malcolm just waved politely. “Goodbye, then, Mother.”

Eyes flashing, she swooped in and kissed his forehead. Then she turned on her heel and vanished in less than three seconds.

Which was exactly when Matt appeared, soundlessly, at the base of the stairs.

Malcolm hoped he wasn’t too obviously projecting unadulterated embarrassment. “How much of that did you hear?”

Matt paused and tilted his head in a weirdly delicate way. “None of it,” he said eventually.

Malcolm stifled a smile. “You’re really bad at lying for someone who can tell when anyone else is doing it. _And_ for someone whose profession is basically lying.”

“That’s not my—ugh.” Matt braved a few steps farther in until he could lean against low wall above the second staircase leading downwards. “I’m sorry. I was trying not to listen. She’s hard to block out, though.”

“Thanks,” Malcolm muttered reluctantly.

“She seems…nice.”

“Does she?” Malcolm asked skeptically. “Nice? Really?”

“Well, she clearly cares about you.” Matt wet his lips. “And, just so you know…she wasn’t lying. When she said it wasn’t your fault.”

Malcolm cocked his head. “Don’t you go by heartbeats? That just means the person doesn’t believe they’re lying. It doesn’t mean the statement itself is true.”

Matt looked genuinely confused. “But doesn’t it help? Knowing she doesn’t blame you for anything?”

Malcolm thought about how to explain how sometimes he thought the only reason Jessica didn’t blame him was because she was too busy blaming herself. Then he thought about asking Matt if it would really make a difference to Matt what people thought about _him_ if _he_ knew better. Then he changed the subject. Mostly. “So you can really hear a heartbeat from a floor up?”

“Yeah. If I concentrate.”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “Doesn’t sound like you were trying not to listen.”

“Ah.” Matt rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I was, until I heard her mention the rest of your team.”

Oh.

“They’re…what, helping you? Now?”

Still remembering how Matt had reacted when he’d figured out that the NYPD had his DNA, Malcom figured he’d better act fast to diffuse the situation. “Okay, no, first off: _Gil_ is the only one who _offered_ to help when I went in this morning. JT didn’t act like anything different was going on, other than wanting to make sure I was okay, and Dani…” He trailed off.

“Dani?” Matt echoed.

“Forget it.” Malcolm forced a smile. “Good news, though: we can now use NYPD databases in our hunt for Jared. And his dad. We’ve gotta find his dad.”

“Why?” Matt drifted towards Sunshine’s cage like he was enamored. Maybe by her rapid heartbeat, maybe by her feathers rustling.

“Jared’s dad was sending those threatening texts to Violet, remember? And Violet and Jared are both convinced he’ll act on them. Might not end up at _murder_ , but it sounds like it won’t be pretty.”

“Oh. Right.” Matt seemed to study Sunshine. Apparently he liked her. Then he blinked and swiveled back towards Malcolm. “Come to the office tomorrow.”

“Uh, what?”

“Come to the office tomorrow,” Matt repeated. “We can work with Foggy and Karen to come up with next steps. If Gil wants you to have support other than just…well, _me_.”

Huh. Apparently whatever relationship bomb had exploded at the law firm yesterday wasn’t so bad that Matt couldn’t come to work. Then again, Malcolm assumed that was a high threshold. “You sure?”

“D’you ever…” Matt tilted his head back as if staring up at the ceiling. “D’you ever keep too many secrets, Malcolm?”

“Not unless you’re referring to fake vacations,” Malcolm said, earning himself a confused look. “Not really,” he clarified. “I’d rather get it all out in the open as soon as possible. Exhume myself. I’m real fun at parties.” Except for the whole son-of-a-serial-killer thing, but he wasn’t exactly _great_ at keeping that secret either, despite his efforts, so….

Matt was soundlessly mouthing the word _exhume_ , looking stricken.

“You should see their faces,” Malcolm offered weakly. And it was fun, sometimes. JT’s reactions especially were generally priceless. Not that Malcolm ever _planned_ to shock him, it was more that…shocking things just kinda came out. Besides, it didn’t really change how JT or anyone else treated him, even though Gil got that _you’re-concerning-me_ expression every time Malcolm mentioned how many hours of sleep he’d gotten or what he (hadn’t) had for breakfast.

To be fair, though. Foggy and Karen didn’t seem like they’d be quite so laidback if Matt ever tried transparency out for a change.

~

Matt left shortly after the conversation. It wasn’t like he was up for much strategic brainstorming, and besides, Malcom had the invitation to show up at his office tomorrow to look forward to. So Malcolm went to bed, got about three hours of _mostly_ uninterrupted sleep in, and tried to focus at the precinct the next day. He updated Gil and the team on the Worthington case (trying not to mention too much Daredevil-related stuff) (and trying very hard to ignore the way Dani kept not looking at him) and made some progress on other cases, but it was still a relief to get across time to the obscure and kind of dingy law office of Nelson and Murdock.

Matt popped out of the front door just as Malcolm turned onto the block and intercepted him before Malcolm could even reach the place, swinging his cane ahead of him as he moved swiftly down the sidewalk. “Heard you coming,” he said, falling into step besides Malcolm.

Malcolm studied him. From this close up, the lawyer’s tinted sunglasses couldn’t hide the shadows under his eye or the messy stubble along his jaw. He somehow looked even worse than he had last night, which had been bad enough. “Whoa, Matt, you look…”

“I know.” His voice was rough. Not _Daredevil_ gravely, exactly, but _had a sore throat and didn’t sleep_ gravely. “I was out late.”

And probably hungover. Wait, was he fighting while still drunk and/or hungover? “Doing?” Malcolm asked, wondering if he even wanted to know the answer.

Matt’s eyebrows pinched together unhappily. “Looking for Jared. Or his dad.”

“Judging by your face, I’m guessing you didn’t have much luck.”

“Jared hasn’t…” Matt stopped to clear his throat, which sadly didn’t help. All it did was make him sound defensive. “Jared hasn’t been at his mother’s place since the night we broke in, and neither he nor his father are in Hell’s Kitchen anymore. I can’t even tell if they’re still with the Dogs of Hell.”

“The Dogs of Hell can’t be happy with Jared,” Malcolm remarked. “After all, his genius plan was the one that brought you storming in to wreak havoc.”

Matt ignored this. “I can still find them, it’ll just…take longer.”

“If Jared’s next target is his father, we might not _have_ longer. I mean, they’re both criminals, but we can’t just let them kill each other.”

“I know,” Matt growled. “I’m working on it.”

 _We_ , Malcolm corrected silently, deciding not to push it out loud. Matt already looked irritated enough at the world in general. No need for Malcolm to jump under his weird, sensory crosshairs. “Well, I think we should focus on finding Jared’s father. He’s both a potential vic if Jared gets to him _and_ a perp for stalking Violet.”

Matt didn’t look convinced. “My client needs a defense sooner rather than later.”

“And you don’t think Jared’s father could help her case if he testified?”

“We don’t even know his _name_.”

“Don’t we,” Malcolm said smugly. “Born Jacob Luffman, but answers to about four different aliases. Ugly criminal record, too. Assault, kidnapping, deadly weapons charges, you name it.”

Matt pulled back, looking startled. “How—”

“I told you my team wanted to help.” Dani was the one who found the names, actually. She’d slid them across the table on a notepad without saying a word.

“Oh.” Matt was frowning. Definitely not used to having help beyond the confines of his tiny office—if he even got that much. “Well, that’s good.”

But the frowning didn’t go away.

Malcolm raised his eyebrows, remembered a second later that that probably wouldn’t have an effect, and prompted, “You’re making a face.”

The frown was wiped away like he’d taken a magic eraser to his expression. “No, not at all, I just…” He winced slightly. “Don’t remember you saying anything about your team helping.”

“Oh.” They came to a stop right outside the law office, but Malcolm caught Matt’s arm before he could actually move inside, figuring he’d rather have this conversation in a bit more privacy. “Wait, what _do_ you remember from last night?”

Matt looked confused by both the question and Malcolm’s touch. “Just going to your place. We were supposed to talk about the case, but we didn’t. Your…your mother showed up, didn’t she?”

“You don’t remember what we talked about?” He didn’t remember demanding Malcolm for answers about whatever was _wrong_ with him?

Matt pulled back, wariness flashing across his face. “No. Why? What did we talk about?”

“Nothing.” Malcolm remembered the whole lie-detector thing too late. Yikes, shouldn’t’ve brought up the topic in the first place. “I mean, like…friendship. Stuff. Yeah. We talked about friendship stuff.”

Matt’s eyebrows shot up. “Friendship stuff.”

“ _Hence_ coming here, to your office.” Malcolm gestured grandly. “You wanted me to have more people in my life so Gil won’t lecture me so much, and you very generously offered your friends. And I instantly accepted, because I like making friends while they last.”

Matt’s mouth moved soundlessly over the words _while they last_ and Malcolm wanted to kick himself for rambling so much.

“Anyway,” he said loudly, and pushed his way into the office.

“Malcolm!” Foggy greeted him immediately, spreading his hands grandly in the middle of the lobby. His tie had tiny foxes on it. “Welcome once again to our humble abode. Well, work abode. But it’s a functional home abode too. I mean, we even have a kitchen, and sometimes we sleep in our office chairs.”

“No, we don’t,” Karen corrected, curled up in one of the waiting room chairs and not raising her eyes from the laptop balanced on her knees. “New office policy instituted last week, remember?”

“Oh.” Foggy’s face fell slightly. Then he brightened. “But we _don’t_ have a policy against sleeping on our luxurious floor, so my point still stands.”

Malcolm prodded at the dull industrial carpet with his toe but didn’t try to rock the boat by arguing. He wasn’t sure what kind of welcome he should expect after failing so spectacularly at his don’t-let-Matt-do-anything-stupid job, but he definitely hadn’t expected _this_.

“Hey,” Foggy said, slinging an arm over Malcolm’s shoulder and lowering his voice. “Buddy, listen. Just FYI. Next time your magical NYPD affiliations bring _anything_ Daredevil-related to your attention, please feel _very free_ to skip talking to Matt about it and come straight to Karen and me, his legal guardians.”

Karen finally looked up, glaring at Matt. “Especially if whatever comes to your attention has even the slightest chance of getting him arrested.”

Oh. “The DNA?” Malcolm guessed.

“The DNA,” Foggy repeated sardonically. “Bingo.”

Matt stood just in the doorway, head bowed slightly.

That maybe explained some things about last night.

Malcolm quickly changed the subject. “Guess what, everyone? I was talking to Gil, my, um—” He faltered on just how to describe Gil. “He’s the lieutenant of the team I work with,” he clarified awkwardly. “Anyway, I was talking to him, and he said the team will help with the Worthington case!”

Foggy and Karen both swiveled to stare at Matt, who opened his mouth, ran his hand through his hair, and closed his mouth again.

Malcolm frowned. “You know…for your _client?_ ”

“Malcolm,” Karen started to say gently.

Foggy swooped in. “You know that won’t work. Matt can’t work with cops.”

“He worked with _me_ ,” Malcolm pointed out.

“Because you already knew my identity,” Matt said tightly.

“Because Matt was careless,” Karen said at the exact same time. “Which he _won’t_ be again.”

“He will be again,” Foggy corrected, “but not on this case. He’s reached his carelessness quota for this case.”

“You have carelessness quotas?” Malcolm asked.

“No,” Matt said, irritation and fondness battling it out on his face. “We’ve gotten sidetracked. Malcolm, if you want to work with your team, that’s great. And I can still pass information on to you, but that’s all I can do.”

“But you can come out with us at night, right? Isn’t that the point of your mask and your weird Batman voice?”

Matt stiffened indignantly. “It’s not a—”

“It’s _totally_ a Batman voice,” Foggy crowed, high-fiving Malcolm and Karen. “Three to one, Matt, admit it!”

Matt was _trying_ to look frustrated, he definitely was, but the fondness was winning now. “Guys,” he said plaintively.

Karen regained composure first. “Right. Matt’s right. He can’t run around with you if you’ve got detectives with you. Maybe we can help out as Angela’s legal team—”

“Because _that’s_ not ethically dubious,” Foggy said cheerfully.

Malcolm scuffed his heel on the floor. “I get it, I get it.”

He was starting to wonder if this whole idea was gonna turn out to cause more problems than it solved when Matt said, very quietly, “They already helped.”

And _that_ got everyone’s attention.

Matt gave a forced shrug. “They figured out the identity of Jared’s biological father. From there, they’ll get any registered vehicles and known addresses. I spent all night looking for him and came up empty, but now…” Matt pressed his lips together in a slightly embarrassed smile.

“Oh, _right_ ,” Foggy said. “They don’t have to help with boots on the ground, they can put our tax dollars to actual good use and funnel info our way, which Matt can use to drop the guy off at the precinct’s door with a note stapled to his chest.”

“Safety pinned,” Matt corrected.

Karen sighed like they were all being unusually dumb. “And what are these detectives gonna think when Daredevil takes advantage of secret information they’re giving Malcolm? Even if Matt isn’t literally going out with them at night, it still draws a pretty straight line from Malcolm to Daredevil, and there’s already a straight line from Malcolm to Matt.”

Malcolm tried not to look too guilty. Matt’s friends didn’t seem to realize that Gil drew that line between Malcolm and Daredevil ages ago.

“It’s a risk,” Matt said tersely, “but one we have to take. We don’t have another defense for Angela—right now, it’s just her word against the prosecution’s. And her word doesn’t help much when the prosecution can submit her angry journal entries into evidence.”

But Foggy bit his lip. “Have you considered that maybe it’s not worth risking your identity’s exposure, probably leading to you getting disbarred if not leading to you getting _actually killed_ …just for one case?”

A muscle ticked in Matt’s clenched jaw. He seemed to stare sightlessly at Foggy. Foggy stared right back.

Malcolm thought that a staring contest was unfairly tilted in Matt’s favor. But before he could point this out, his phone started buzzing in his pocket—loud and sudden enough that Matt jumped and looked instantly ashamed of himself. So maybe Foggy won after all.

Anyway, Malcolm pulled his phone out of his pocket, caught a glimpse of the name flashing across his caller ID, and shoved the phone back into his pocket as fast as he could.

“Who was that?” Matt asked sharply.

“Matt,” Foggy hissed. “Boundaries. Have some.”

“His heartrate skyrocketed,” Matt argued. “I’ve never heard it sound quite like that before.”

Foggy facepalmed. “Sorry, Malcolm, he’s just like that, the usefulness sometimes makes up for the invasiveness, but it’s still—”

Matt talked over him. “Is something wrong?”

The vibrating against his leg had stopped only to start up again. Malcolm swallowed. He didn’t have to talk about this, he _knew_ that. But…friendship. Honesty. “It’s, ah…it’s my father.”

Matt’s face went instantly blank.

More importantly, though, Foggy and Karen just looked confused. Malcolm realized he’d never asked whether Matt told Foggy or Karen the truth about Martin Whitly…but it sure looked like Matt had protected Malcolm’s secret better than Malcolm had protected his.

“Like I said earlier,” Malcolm said through gritted teeth. “He’s pretending to have a relationship with me.”

Matt wet his lips and lowered his voice even though everyone in the room could obviously still hear him. “You said…I thought you said he sometimes has insight. On cases.”

And Malcolm still hated that. Still hated that no matter how good he got, Dr. Whitly would always be one step ahead when it came to finding killers. “Takes one to know one, that’s all,” Malcolm said heavily.

“I have so many questions,” Foggy whispered.

“One what?” Matt’s eyebrows rose thoughtfully above his glasses. The _one serial killer_ part went unspoken. “Maybe one obsessive father?”

“He’s—huh.” The phone stopped vibrating. “Obsessive father.”

He didn’t need to do this. With his team’s support, they could find both Jared Worthington and his gangster father through police records. He didn’t need the Surgeon’s help.

But Matt had been _so vulnerable_ when he showed up drunk last night, begging to be profiled. And Matt had never treated Malcolm differently, not _really_ , even after he learned about the Surgeon. And Matt wasn’t telling his friends, even though he had to know Foggy and Karen would be furious at him for keeping yet another secret.

So maybe all that was why Malcolm slowly pulled his phone back out of his pocket. Or maybe it was for another reason entirely, one he could unearth later—much later, and probably with the help of his therapist.

For whatever reason, Malcolm hit redial and held the phone up to his ear. “Hi,” he said, bracing himself. “It’s Malcolm Bright. I’m calling for Dr. Whitly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh this chapter was just So Difficult. I hope you all like it anyway. The next one will be more - ahem - fun!


	21. Connections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyy so I said I was excited about this chapter, and I AM, but I'm more excited for a thing happening in the NEXT chapter, which I foolishly thought would fit into this chapter despite the fact that I should know by now how terrible I am at correctly anticipating how much stuff fits in a single chapter. Alas. Still, I hope you enjoy!

Matt

Malcolm’s heartrate was rabbit-fast, his hand slick with sweat as he gripped the phone.

“ _Dr. Whitley’s phone time is almost up._ ” That was the voice of…a guard, Matt assumed. At the prison. No, not the prison. The Surgeon got the plea deal of a lifetime, got himself branded as insane, and ended up at a psychiatric hospital. That was what Matt found when he researched the case.

(He recognized the name of the defense attorney. A despicable man appropriate for his monster of a client.)

“It won’t take long,” Malcolm said quietly.

“ _Whatever you say._ ” There was a rustling on the other end of the line. Matt couldn’t help himself; he leaned forward, straining to hear more through the grainy, staticky quality.

Foggy was whispering to Karen. Matt blocked it out.

He heard new breathing on the other end of the line. Slow, perfectly controlled. The breathing didn’t match the delight in the voice that said, “ _My boy._ ”

Malcolm swallowed audibly. “Dr. Whitly.”

“ _Well, isn’t this a surprise._ ” The voice was pleasant. Not musical, exactly, but still smooth like warm tea. “ _I’ve been calling, you know._ ”

“I know,” Malcolm said thinly. His other hand clenched at his side, fingers rubbing together. “I’ve been busy.”

“ _Of course, of course._ ” But there was deep curiosity almost hidden beneath the words. “ _I believe you, I do, it’s just…I haven’t seen much on the news. Did New York, ahem, run out of serial killers?_ ” Malcolm’s breathing changed, but the voice swept on before he could say anything: “ _That’s not important, I just bring it up because I’m wondering what could possibly be keeping you so busy if your little violent crimes team hasn’t even been up to anything news-worthy, that’s all._ ”

Malcolm was clearly trying to keep his voice as perfectly controlled as his father’s. He didn’t manage it so well. “Well, Dr. Whitly,” he said, the name sounding stiff in his mouth, “you don’t have to be a serial killer to be a bad person.”

“ _Believe me, son, I know that all too well. Do you remember that neighbor we used to have? The one with those horrible, yappy little dogs? Now,_ that _was a bad person. Always let his weeds grow into our yard, and he never—_ ”

“I’m not calling to talk about that,” Malcolm interrupted, but he seemed to wince even as he did so.

A bemused pause. “ _Well, then what do you want to talk about, my boy?_ ”

“I’m—I’m working on another case.” Malcolm wet his lips, then succinctly spelled out the case. The first murder. The wrongful arrest. Chasing the son. Learning about the real father.

“ _You’re saying you can’t find a single one-time murderer?_ ” The voice sounded disappointed. “ _Or a…a gang member? Really, Malcolm, I don’t know what to tell you._ ”

“It’s not about finding them,” Malcolm said sharply. “My team can manage that.”

“ _Oh, so you_ are _working with your team? Not with…_ ” A long, long pause. “ _Someone else, maybe?_ ” the voice finally finished.

“What makes you think—no, just my team.” Malcolm pushed his other hand through his hair. “It’s just not as high-profile, that’s all. Listen, the point is, we—I—we can find them. But. I wanted to hear your perspective.”

There was a mild humming sound. “ _My perspective on strangulation as a method? Horribly messy, terribly inefficient. Takes far too long and it’s almost impossible to keep control over all the DNA. Half the time the other person is spitting on you, and it’s just an uncomfortable experience all around._ ”

Matt’s stomach twisted.

Malcolm’s grip on the phone tightened. “I’m not asking about methods, I’m asking about motivations. I need to know if there’s a way to get the biological father to leave his son alone before he makes everything worse with his obsession.”

Matt nodded to himself. If Malcolm’s team was as good as he seemed to think, they should be able to locate both Jared and his father. But there were too many things that could still go wrong. What if Jared got to his father first, and took another life? What if the father caused Violet real harm trying to stake a claim over his son? But if they could get the father to back off, they could deal with Jared alone. (Which would have the added benefit of keeping the case streamlined for Angela. Too many characters in a story could confuse a jury.)

But the voice on the other end of the phone sounded bemused. “ _I’m afraid I fail to see why my perspective would be relevant to that._ ”

Malcolm gritted his teeth. He mouthed something to himself, too quick and tight-lipped for Matt to interpret it. “What would it take,” he said finally, “for you to stop trying to be in my life?”

Another long, drawn out pause that now somehow seemed injured. “ _Oh, Malcolm,_ ” the voice said at last, low and sad, “ _nothing could ever do that._ ”

“Then I guess you can’t help me.” Malcolm lowered the phone.

“ _Wait!_ ” The voice dripped with desperation. “ _Wait, no, I…I might have ideas._ ”

Malcolm raised the phone back to his ear. “I’m listening.”

Matt caught the sound of distant, muted footfalls. Dr. Whitly must be pacing in his cell. But was he trying to find the answer, or was he merely scheming how to keep Malcolm on the line?

The guy was a psychopath. Manipulative by definition.

“ _Malcolm_ ,” he said, and his voice took on a new tone, something warm and…almost familiar. Unbidden, an image flashed across Matt’s mind—an actual mental image, a picture of his father’s face when Jack got home, tired and bruised after a match, but smiling as he ruffled Matt’s hair and asked whether Matt finished his homework. “ _I love you,_ ” the voice went on, “ _so if I thought…if I thought that trying to be in your life would hurt you, I’d stop. I would let you live your life without me._ ” A pause. “ _Even though you’re my only connection to the rest of the world,_ ” the voice went on, a little faster now, a little sharper, a hint of something almost like nervousness underlying it, although Matt couldn’t be sure. “ _Even though, if I didn’t have you, I wouldn’t have anything._ ”

Malcolm squeezed the phone tighter for a second, but his other hand was starting to tremble at his side. Still, his voice was impressively level when he said, “You’d still have Mr. David.”

This was answered by a loud scoff.

“Thank you,” Malcolm said tersely. “You’ve been very helpful, Dr. Whitly.”

“ _Wait, Malcolm, tell me what—_ ”

_Click._

Malcolm stuffed the phone into his pocket, took a steadying breath, and turned to face Matt. “Well? Could you tell if he was lying?”

Matt blinked, his senses still a little too zeroed in on the phone. Blinking again, he let them expand enough that he could pick up on the way both Karen and Foggy were holding their breath like they didn’t want to miss a second of the spectacle playing out in front of them. “Uh, no,” Matt said. “Couldn’t hear his heartbeat through the phone, and I don’t know enough about him to pick up on anything through his voice.” He hesitated. “Well, he…he sounded sincere at the end, there. About…about how much you mean to him.”

Malcolm exhaled, long and ragged. “Yeah, he probably did mean that part. I dunno. He didn’t sound like he was lying for the rest of it, but I’m not exactly the best judge.”

Matt tilted his head. “You’re a profiler.”

“And he’s my father,” Malcolm said heavily.

Foggy’s breathing hitched. “Can I just—can I just ask a question here? Just one question, with the possible caveat of multiple follow-up questions depending on the answer to the first one.”

“You don’t need to examine him,” Matt said firmly. Malcolm seemed frayed enough as it was.

Foggy’s weight shifted uneasily. “This is kinda a big deal.”

Matt narrowed his eyes. “Is it? Or are you just making it into one?”

“Matt.” That was Malcolm, taking a small step forward. Both his hands were in his pockets, but his shoulders were back and his chin was up. “Thanks, but…it’s fine. If your friends can keep your identity a secret, I’m sure they can do that for me.” He raised his voice ever so slightly, like volume would compensate for the way his nerves had turned his whole body taught like a bowstring. “You heard right. Dr. Whitly, aka the Surgeon, is my father.”

“Shit,” Karen breathed.

“But…you’re with the NYPD,” Foggy said, as if those two things were necessarily mutually exclusive.

“Well, my father hurt a lot of people.” The words came out slightly distorted by a forced smile. “I’d like to leave a better legacy, if I can.”

Foggy’s head turned the tiniest bit in Matt’s direction, like he had to remind himself that Matt would’ve noticed by now if Malcolm were lying about that. Matt gave a small nod.

Matt caught the fleshy sound of Karen chewing on the inside of her cheek; he still couldn’t tell if she realized he knew when she was doing that. “You, um,” she began, “you shouldn’t have had to tell us that, Malcolm.”

Malcolm shrugged. “Cool, because I didn’t have to. I chose to.”

Foggy gestured uncertainly between him and Matt. “This wasn’t some, like, quid-pro-quo secret identity exchange thing? Because that sounds _really_ unhealthy.”

Matt snorted before he could even think about being offended. “No. Nothing like that.” He still wasn’t sure why Malcolm had chosen to let Foggy and Karen see the truth about his parentage, but he also wasn’t about to cross-examine him over it.

Malcolm spread his hands. “So, I’ll be taking questions now.”

“I just have one,” Foggy announced (and Malcolm tensed, a little). “Did you choose your last name to imply that you have abnormal intelligence or a sunny disposition? Because I’ve gotta say, that makes you either insufferably arrogant or adorably optimistic.”

For a second, Malcolm just stood there, mouth partly open. Then he let out a startled but genuine laugh. “Well, I definitely tell myself it’s the latter.”

“Then I, for one, am glad you adopted Matt here,” Foggy said, leaning in and clapping Malcolm on the shoulder before Matt could object to being considered adopted. “Welcome to our misfit family, Malcolm Bright.”

~

That night, Matt donned the mask and went out. He’d gotten no news from Malcolm about his team’s progress, so he assumed that no one had actually tracked down either Jared or his father. Maybe Matt had been too optimistic about the capabilities of the NYPD. So he figured he could help. If he found either of them, he could drop them off at the precinct.

The trick, of course, was keeping them there. Especially if Matt found the father first. Jacob Luffman or whatever he went by these days. If the NYPD didn’t have enough on him from his gang activities to hold him, or if he got out on bail, there was no reason to think he wouldn’t keep trying to get to Jared. And frankly, even if Jared was arrested first, Jacob could continue terrorizing Violet.

At least, that was what Matt would tell Foggy if questioned as to why he wasn’t letting the NYPD quote-unquote “do their jobs.” In truth, Matt was just…not great at inactivity.

But as he was creeping along the rooftops not far from the office of Nelson and Murdock, keeping an ear out for other crimes, he heard a noise underneath all the people and cars and sirens that was altogether unexpected: a now-familiar heartbeat. Malcolm, in Hell’s Kitchen of all places.

What was he doing here? Even if he wasn’t dressed in his usual suits—and the combination of stiff and soft rustling told Matt that he was wearing jeans and a hoodie—he still stood out. His posture, his mannerisms, the strange way that he exuded confidence while simultaneously acting like he expected everyone around him to turn away from him at any moment.

Stifling a sigh, Matt leapt over a few buildings, swung down a fire escape, and hopped off a dumpster to land in an alley just as Malcolm was crossing in front of the mouth of it. “Bright,” Matt hissed.

Malcolm froze—hand going to his hip, like he was used to having a weapon there—and whirled around, only to exhale in relief a second later. “Ma—I mean. Uh. You.”

Grabbing his wrist, Matt jerked him into the cover of the alley. “The hell are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” Malcolm said defiantly. “I tried texting, but I guess you left your normal-person phone at home.”

Hidden under his mask, Matt’s eyes widened in alarm. “Did something happen?”

“Oh, no, sorry,” Malcolm said quickly. “I just, y’know, couldn’t sleep, so…”

Matt couldn’t believe this. “So you thought you’d just wander the streets of Hell’s Kitchen at night? This isn’t uptown, Malcolm.”

Malcolm made an indignant noise. “I know that. I guess I’ve just gotten used to…I dunno…”

“To what?” Matt demanded roughly. “Throwing yourself into danger?”

Malcolm was quiet for a long time, long enough for Matt to stab a guilt for the question that might, arguably, have been tactless. “The cases don’t sleep,” he said at last, voice low. “Normally, I go home after work and just…go over them again and again in my mind. But now, with you, I can…do something.” He shifted his weight. “You know?”

Oh, yes, Matt knew. Didn’t make him any happier about Malcolm endangering himself like this, though. “Listen, you can’t—” He broke off.

One block away, a burly figure was jostling the handle at the front door of Nelson and Murdock.

“What?” Malcolm whispered. “What is it?”

Matt held up a gloved hand, zeroing in on his office. The person had stopped pulling at the handle, and now Matt could just barely hear the scrape of something against metal.

Someone was trying to pick the lock.

Matt shoved Malcolm deeper into the alley. “Stay here.” Then, without waiting to see if his orders would be followed, he took off at a sprint. The person—male, early fifties, decently athletic, smelling of alcohol and gunpowder and unwashed hair—seemed to realize that danger was incoming because he spun around and reached for the handgun in his belt.

Right both heels of Matt’s feet crashed solidly against his chest. The man went down, banging hard against the doorframe, and Matt landed lightly in front of him. “What are you doing with—”

He cut himself off again, both his and the man’s heads swiveling at the same time as Malcolm rounded the corner, slightly out of breath. His heart was pounding, and it beat even faster as he took in the scene in front of him.

Matt really didn’t know why he’d bothered giving Malcolm an order at all.

“You,” Matt growled, grabbing the man beneath him by the lapels of his cracked leather jacket, and dragged him around one of the corners of the office where they were less likely to be seen from the road. He kept his hands on the man, about to renew his interrogation of the would-be thief.

But Malcolm had followed along like a well-trained puppy and he raised his voice first. “Luffman! Is that you?”

The spike in the man’s heartbeat confirmed it.

Matt tightened his hold on the man’s lapels. “Jacob Luffman?”

Luffman thrashed in Matt’s grip for about three seconds before realizing that he wasn’t getting anywhere. Then he sagged, his sour breath panting in Matt’s face. “Where’d you get that name?”

Malcolm approached carefully. “We’ve been looking for you. It’s because of your son.”

Luffman froze.

Matt shook him once to regain his attention. “What do you want with this office? You were breaking in.”

“Nothing!” Luffman’s voice was rough from anger and too many cigarettes and not enough fear, not yet.

Matt felt his lips curve into a feral smile. “You’re Dogs of Hell, which means I know you know who I am. Which means you know what’ll happen if you lie to me again.”

Hardened gangster though he was, Luffman flinched ever so slightly. “Just—just trying to get some cash—”

Matt adjusted his grip with one hand and calmly punched Luffman’s nose with the other. Cartilage snapped and blood splattered in Matt’s face. “Wrong answer.”

To his credit, Luffman didn’t scream, just sucked in a pained breath. He also didn’t speak.

Matt lowered his face directly in front of Luffman’s. “I’ll ask you one more time. What do you want with this office?”

Luffman swallowed. “The—the lawyers. They’re going after my son.”

~

Malcolm

Right now, Malcolm knew several things. He knew Matt was a vigilante. He knew Matt had done many violent things (like putting people into comas). He knew Jacob Luffman was a bad man who’d done worse things than Matt for terrible reasons. He also knew from seeing Luffman’s mugshot that this was far from his first broken nose.

Still. Knowing all that and then seeing Matt punch a guy in the face just for dodging one single question were two different things.

Under the dim streetlights, Matt’s head tilted dangerously. “What—”

“Why do you care that they’re going after your son?” Malcolm blurted out, stepping closer.

Matt’s lips pulled back in a deeper snarl that Malcolm thought might be directed at him.

Luffman strained his neck to see Malcolm better. “You with him?”

“I just want to know.” Malcolm gentled his voice. “You can tell me.”

Luffman hesitated.

Matt gave him a small shake. “Answer him.”

“All right!” Luffman turned his head towards Malcolm again. “They wanna throw my son into prison. That’s what his mother says, anyway.”

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. “Oh, she’s talked to you?”

Luffman gave a single nod, and his eyes darted to Matt like he had to double-check if that was a good enough answer.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Matt went on in that ridiculous voice of his that sounded much less ridiculous now that his face was glinting with someone else’s blood. “The lawyers aren’t even here. What were you planning to do if you got in?”

“Just mess with them, scare them off, I dunno!” Luffman kept trying to flinch away, but Matt’s grasp was apparently like steel.

Matt bared his teeth. “Well, it didn’t work,” he rasped, “and you won’t try again. In fact, you won’t ever come back to Hell’s Kitchen again. If you do, I will find you, and trust me—you’re not gonna like what happens when I do.”

Luffman nodded desperately. “All right, all right.”

But something must’ve not been very convincing, because Matt drew back his bloody fist and struck again, this time driving his fist into Luffman’s cheek. The other man yelped and swore as his red-streaked face flushed. “All right! I’ll go, I won’t come back, don’t hit me!”

Malcolm took a deep breaths. This was fine. This was normal. For Matt, anyway, and this was Matt’s world.

“Just one more thing.” Matt’s voice somehow dropped into an even deeper, more dangerous pitch. “About your son.”


	22. Sacrifice

Matt

Luffman stiffened. “He’s none of your business.”

Matt would really rather just drag this man back to the precinct now, but it would be far easier to convince Luffman to leave his son alone as Daredevil than as Matt Murdock. “You’ve been stalking him. And his mother.”

“ _You’re_ accusing _me_ of stalking?” Luffman tried to laugh, and promptly choked a bit on some of his own blood, gagging.

Matt wasn’t feeling terribly sympathetic to his plight. “You need to leave all of them alone.”

“All right, I will!” But Luffman’s heart betrayed him. He had no intention of changing his behavior.

Given the fact that Matt needed Luffman conscious for this, he bit back the urge to smash his face in again and instead opted for curling his fingers tighter into Luffman’s shirt. “I’ll give you one more warning, and then—”

Malcolm’s voice interrupted, soft and low. “Wait.”

Biting back a scowl, Matt jerked his head once in Malcolm’s direction.

Walking forward, Malcolm crouched next to Luffman, much too close for Matt’s liking, but Matt didn’t know how tell him to stay away without alerting Luffman and possibly giving him the idea of trying to go through Malcolm. “Listen,” Malcolm began, calm and quiet. Even his heartbeat was under control. “I’ve talked to your son, Jacob. He has…well, he has a lot going on right now. He’s distracted enough already, and he’s…he’s scared.”

“How do you know?” Luffman spat.

“I talked to him,” Malcolm said, not a hint of dishonesty in his tone. “His world’s crashing down around him right now. The last thing he needs is anything else to upset or distract him.”

“I’m trying to _help_ him, you—”

“He can’t accept your help right now,” Malcolm cut in, and his voice was suddenly sharper. “Even if you’re right, even if you have advice or resources or whatever it is you’re trying to offer him, it’ll just make things worse until he’s in a place where he can actually accept _you_.”

Matt frowned slightly. That sounded like—

“Right now, not only will your son not accept your help, but he’ll get upset enough to make another mistake. Is that what you want for him?”

Luffman swallowed, shifting his weight under Matt’s grip. Unbelievably, Malcolm’s words were getting to him. Not that he was ready to admit that just yet. “And why do you care? You’re teaming up with _him_ ,” Luffman growled, pointing his chin at Matt.

“He’s only pinning you down because you were trying to break into a building,” Malcolm lied. He gestured at Matt. “Right?”

Matt spent about three seconds debating his options. He wasn’t sure where Malcolm was planning on going with this little conversation, but he was obviously hoping to go _somewhere_ , and while Matt’s usual do-as-I-say-or-I’ll-break-your-arm technique rarely failed, Matt could admit that, when dealing with an obsessive parent like Luffman, Malcolm might have a better sense for which strategy would actually achieve the long-term outcome they needed.

So, gritting his teeth, Matt released Luffman and stood up. “Stay down,” he ordered.

Luffman’s breathing hitched and his muscles tensed, so Matt stomped on his ankle. It wasn’t the right angle to break any bones, but Luffman let out a yelp and didn’t try to get up.

“Stay down,” Matt repeated, but he took a slow step backwards, giving Luffman more room to breathe. To think.

Malcolm gave a tiny nod, imperceptible to anyone else. “You asked why I care,” he said to Luffman. “Let me tell you. I care because I know what Jared’s going through.”

And Luffman’s breathing hitched again, but not because he was trying to move. Because he was _listening_.

“I know what Jared’s going through,” Malcolm repeated. “I’ve been there. He can’t change what he’s done, nothing can change that, which means he needs to figure out how to deal with that reality.”

Wait, was…was Malcolm really analogizing his perceived failures as a kid to Jared Worthington’s cold-blooded murder? Matt almost wanted to interrupt, but he bit his tongue.

“And when Jared sorts through that,” Malcolm went on, “he needs to be able to focus. You’ve gotta agree that having his real father show up, texting his mother all the time, trying to get ahold of him, not to mention getting him involved with a gang…none of that’s gonna help him.”

Luffman was very quiet. Thinking. Still listening, Matt hoped.

“Just give him some time,” Malcolm urged. “If you butt in now, your son’s gonna drop one of the balls he’s juggling. But if you wait, not only will your son not get hurt, but he _might_ be in a place where he can actually hear what you have to say. All right?”

Luffman hesitated. “All right.”

But his heartbeat jumped.

Matt took a step forward, but Luffman drew the handgun from his belt with all the experience of forty years with the Dogs of Hell. Matt came up sharply, hands raised, as he sensed the barrel level at his chest.

“Wait!” Malcolm burst out.

It was fine, Matt wasn’t worried. Luffman obviously knew his way around a weapon, but Matt was still confident that he could disarm him with a kick before the weapon discharged. He’d done it before—with criminals, with the NYPD, with the _FBI_.

But Malcolm didn’t know that. To the right and from behind, Matt heard the soft sound of Malcolm stepping closer to Luffman, heard Malcolm’s breathing change slightly, and realized he was about to speak again. Realized that Malcolm still thought he could get through to Luffman, a hardened member of the Dogs of Hell. Remembered that Malcolm once let a killer stick the barrel of a gun under his throat rather than use a weapon to defend himself. Remembered that Malcolm had already decided that his life was worth less than this case.

And Matt lost focus, just for a second.

A second was enough.

The gun fired.

Scorching pain punched into him, concentrating for one single, sharp second on either side of that softer area just above his right hip before spreading in an excruciating wave through his entire body. He gasped, cold rushing through his fingertips, his limbs, as his senses zeroed in on the two brand new icy-hot holes in his side.

It was just a gunshot wound, he should be able to push through. He _had_ to push through. So he wasn’t really sure how he ended up on his knees, one hand braced against the ground, the other hovering over the new hole in his body, afraid to touch it.

The bullet had blazed straight through him, tearing at muscle, nerves, and blood vessels, and thank _God_ it hadn’t hit bone but the perimeter of the entrance wound was singing with a ring of fire, and the _exit_ wound was—

Better not to think about the exit wound.

He had to get up. His dad’s voice whispered: _Get up, Matty._ And then there was Stick, louder, harsher, impatient: _Get up. Show me I’m not wasting my time._

His pulse was too fast. Not helpful, just draining the blood faster from his body, his heart unaware that it was killing him.

_Get up._

He needed to put pressure on the wound, slow the bleeding, but his hand trembled and refused his orders to touch it.

Well, he was kind of in shock. Everything was cold. Not lack-of-blood cold, not yet. But he was trembling. Shock, definitely shock.

Jacob Luffman was laughing. He was raising his gun to fire again.

And then—no, no, _no_ —Malcolm darted in front of the weapon, planting himself directly between Matt and Luffman. Matt managed to say some mangled approximation of Malcolm’s name, but Malcolm might as well have gone deaf. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Matt traded the goal of slowing the bleeding for the goal of sitting up. The ripped abdominal muscles on his right side screamed as he unthinkingly enlisted them in the effort. A choked moan escaped his lips.

Matt couldn’t hear very well, couldn’t really _focus_ past the…past _everything_ , but he knew that was Malcolm’s voice he could hear over the blood rushing in his ears. Malcolm, engaging this criminal with a gun. Trying to reason with him, no doubt. Malcolm, putting himself in the crosshairs just to buy Matt a few more seconds.

Seconds that were wasted on him. Matt’s legs felt cold, hollow, numb. He knew already that getting to his feet would end in disaster. But he had to try, had to do _something_ to regain Luffman’s attention before Malcolm successfully sacrificed himself.

So he pushed himself upwards. Didn’t even get fully upright (pathetic) before he was crumpling back to the ground, his senses flowing fast out of his control, his world of fire snuffed to ash.

~

Malcolm

The gunshot still rang in his ears as Malcolm planted himself between Matt and the weapon. “Luffman!” he shouted.

The barrel of the gun was aimed straight at him. “Stop! Stay back!”

Malcolm flinched, hands raised. “Easy, easy.” His heart pounded in his ears, loud and fast enough that he couldn’t hear Matt over it, and with his eyes locked onto Luffman’s, he had no idea if Matt was moving, if Matt was still _alive_. “I’m not threatening you, it’s okay.”

“You’re with _him_ ,” Luffman hissed, eyes wild.

Malcolm slowly shook his head. “I just want to help your son.”

“Help? _I’m helping him!_ ”

“You’re _hurting_ him!” Malcolm yelled. “If you really care about him, you’ll back off and give him space to deal with the crisis he’s already in! Look what you just did! You really think Jared needs _more_ violence in his life?”

“He needs someone who’ll do what needs done.” But Luffman’s eyes darted past Malcolm, over to where Matt had fallen, and there was a flicker of doubt there.

“He needs someone who knows how to use something other than a _gun_ to help him!”

“What, like you?” Luffman’s upper lip curled into a sneer. “You’re saying you’re gonna help him? What are you, a shrink?”

“Not exactly a shrink, but…” Malcolm took a deep breath, holding Luffman’s gaze. Luffman had to believe this, he _had_ to. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll help your son.”

His son, the murderer.

Luffman shifted from one foot to the other. He wet his lips. He loosened and tightened his fingers on the handle of his weapon. He looked over at Matt again (and Malcolm resisted the urge to follow his gaze). Then he looked back at Malcolm. “Your name.”

“Malcolm Bright,” Malcolm said evenly. “And…okay, just so you know, if you look me up, you’ll see that I consult with the NYPD. _But_ ,” he went on as Luffman stiffened up, “that doesn’t change anything that I just said. I’m not a cop and I’m not a prosecutor. Do you trust me?”

Luffman squeezed the handle of his gun, but he was keeping his finger off the trigger. He exhaled sharply. “Your number.”

Like…why not, at this point? Matt was _dying_ , so Malcolm rattled off the numbers. Twice, actually, because Luffman didn’t have anything to take notes and the last thing he wanted was for Luffman to misremember and think Malcolm had given him a fake number. “Okay?” Malcolm said. “I’ll…I’ll keep you updated. And if— _when_ —Jared wants you around, I’ll tell you. And I can go between you in the meantime. Now, please, listen, my—um—this guy, Daredevil, I need to help him.”

“Helping everyone today, aren’t you?” Luffman breathed.

“Trying to,” Malcolm replied, unblinking.

Luffman lowered the gun. Then he shook his head sharply and raised it again. Then he swore under his breath and lowered it. “All right. Fine. Help him. And you and I, we’ll be in touch.”

“Definitely,” Malcolm said hurriedly.

Luffman took a step backwards. “If you make me regret this, I will make you go through _hell_.”

“Noted.”

A few more steps backwards; then, suddenly, Luffman turned and took off at a sprint.

Which was Malcolm’s chance to whirl around, squinting through the dark to see Matt curled on the ground. The yellowish light from the closest streetlight glinted off his blood-soaked shirt.

Malcolm skidded to his knees next to him, hands hovering over the place on Matt’s hip where the blood was darkest. “Hey, hey, Matt…”

Matt tried to lift himself up, only to collapse back down and curl up tighter. “Malcolm…where’s Luffman,” he whispered, voice so weak that Malcolm wasn’t totally convinced that he’d actually heard it instead of just reading his lips.

“Don’t worry about him.” Malcolm wasn’t a doctor, but he _had_ picked up some fun facts about gunshot wounds over the years. “You need to listen to me. Hey, _listen_.” He tapped gently at the side of Matt’s face until Matt’s eyes locked briefly onto his. “There we go. You’re going into shock, but I need you to concentrate. Focus on me. I need you to tell me if the bullet did any internal damage.”

Matt’s eyes fell closed again and his breaths came short and shallow. “S’not internal…anymore,” he gasped out, gesturing weakly at the entry wound.

He was seriously making _jokes_ , that was—disturbing, but what part of Matt’s mental health _wasn’t_ disturbing. Anyway, not the point, not the priority right now. “Is anything in you _broken?_ ” Malcolm snapped, not daring to try moving him if the bullet’s impact had splintered a rib; he’d end up puncturing Matt’s lung, and then Matt would just die from asphyxiation instead of exsanguination.

Matt’s head moved limply back and forth, which wasn’t exactly reassuring but was the best Malcolm was gonna get. “Where—where—”

“Can you stand?” Malcolm interrupted.

Matt forced his eyes open, clearly fighting to level out his breathing. “Yeah,” he whispered shakily, but didn’t do anything to prove it. His breathing wasn’t getting any steadier; if anything, it was speeding up, getting shallower.

Malcolm reached for his phone. “That’s it, I’m calling an ambulance.”

Matt’s eyes rolled back. “No. No hospitals.”

“You got _shot!_ ” Malcolm hissed, voice about an octave higher than it should’ve been.

“And where,” Matt rasped, “d’you think they’ll look for me first?”

The logic sounded well-rehearsed, which was…which was freaking scary. Just how often had he had bad guys hunting through hospitals to finish him off? And maybe he had a point, maybe Luffman would waste no time going to the Dogs of Hell and telling them that Daredevil had been injured. But. “I hear you, I do, but let me let you in on a little fact about me: _I can’t do surgery in an alley_. So we need a professional—”

“Claire,” Matt interrupted, throat moving as he struggled to swallow. “Call Claire.”

“Who—” Never mind, that wasn’t the priority right now either. If Matt trusted this Claire person, that would have to be good enough. Malcolm dug out his phone. “What’s her number?”

No response.

“Hey, Matt? Matt! Number!”

Matt’s eyes were closed, his breathing faint and fluttery.

Okay, great. _Great_. This was…this was definitely something Malcolm should’ve seen coming _weeks_ ago. But Matt must’ve gotten a new burner phone after he purposefully broke the last one, so Malcolm patted his hands along Matt’s legs until he found a lump in a zippered pocket. There it was, a phone. An ancient phone. A brick, like the one Matt let Malcolm borrow once. Malcolm flipped it open and saw two numbers. He chose one at random.

The phone rang three times before a woman’s voice answered, hard and annoyed and also concerned. “What is it this time?”

“Oh, hi,” Malcolm said, and grimaced at himself for sounding so stupid. “Hi, my name’s Malcolm Bright, I’m with Matt, he got shot!” A brief moment of silence for Malcolm to wonder if there was maybe a better way he could’ve phrased that. “He said there’s nothing broken,” Malcolm added, like that tiny bit of good news would make up for the bad news avalanche he’d just dropped on her. “But now he’s unconscious and I don’t know if he’s gonna—”

He was interrupted by muffled swearing. “Is it safe?”

“What?”

“Wherever you are,” the woman said impatiently. “Is it safe?”

“Um…probably not for long.”

“Put pressure on the wound. Get him someplace safe and text me the address. Don’t move him more than you have to.”

“About that,” Malcolm said, swallowing nervously. “Do you happen to have a car we could use?”

She exhaled harsh static in his ear. “No. Shit. I think one of his friends does. _Shit_. I’m gonna kill him.”

“Um…you are Claire, aren’t you?” he asked uncertainly, realizing he should’ve double-checked that _before_ the voice on the other end of the line started threatening murder.

“ _Yes_ , I’m Claire, and I’m gonna do my best to keep him alive, and then I’m going to _murder him_. Get a car, get him somewhere safe, text me.”

She hung up.

Well, Claire seemed…nice. Malcolm pressed his fingers to Matt’s throat and felt a weak, whispery pulse. But he was still out cold. Malcolm was on his own.

First step: get a car. Malcolm didn’t have Foggy or Karen’s numbers, but maybe one of their numbers was the other one in the burner. He called it.

“ _This is Maggie,_ ” a woman’s tired voice said. “ _Leave a message._ ”

Nope, nope, nope. No good. Malcolm hung up.

Think, _think_. Couldn’t call a taxi. And what was he supposed to do, call Jessica and ask her to please bring Adolfo around? Jessica would never let Matt’s identity stay a secret. She’d peek under the mask the first chance she got, and then lecture him when he woke up about…about being friends with Malcolm, probably.

It was time for drastic measures. Malcolm twisted his own phone in his hands, wondering which person from his team he could call who’d be the least likely to pry into Matt’s identity. Not Gil, definitely not Gil. Gil still maybe thought Matt was hurting Malcolm; Gil would just lock Matt up and let the prison doctors take care of him. JT, maybe? The man was the definition of chill.

But.

Malcolm remembered the look in Dani’s eyes when she’d realized he wasn’t gonna stop keeping this secret, and he still remembered her voice (albeit through a haze of too many drugs), rough and shaky in her vulnerability, talking stiltedly about issues with trust.

Well, Matt was gonna hate him for this either way.

Might as well call the one friend who’d hate him less because of it. Taking a deep breath, he dialed Dani’s number.

She didn’t answer until the fourth ring. “Malcolm,” she said, sounding tired and cold and like she didn’t expect anything good from this conversation.

“Hey, Dani.” Malcolm knew his own voice sounded thin and panicked and, well, maybe a little bit crazy. “I was wondering if you could help me? And, um…and a friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I am so so so so excited for this part!


	23. Trust

Malcolm

“What’s wrong?” Dani demanded.

“Can you please just hurry?” Pushing his hair back off his forehead as it kept trying to flop into his face, Malcolm held the phone tighter to his ear. “My friend, he’s…hurt.”

“And you can’t call an ambulance because…?”

She was trying to sound tough, but he heard her car starting up in the background. “Thanks, I owe you one!” And with that, he hung up before she could ask any more hard questions and only hesitated a second before texting her the address to Nelson and Murdock’s law office.

She must hate him right now, but that didn’t matter as long as she was coming.

Okay. Help was on the way. All he had to do was keep Matt from bleeding out until Dani got there. And then…keep Dani from shooting him on sight. She wouldn’t do that, would she? Not if he was injured?

Keep Dani from ripping off Matt’s mask, then.

And convince her to take Matt back to Malcolm’s apartment instead of to the station.

All while continuing to keep Matt from bleeding out.

Malcolm’s stupid, shaky hand was being its old reliable, shaky self as he pressed it harder against Matt’s wound. Matt didn’t react at all; he probably looked dead to most people, just that Malcolm had seen a few too many bodies to be tricked by unconsciousness. One of those little perks of the job.

Besides, the entry wound wasn’t even that big.

The exit wound, though. That was where Malcolm should be paying the most attention, which he realized with a queasy jolt. Biting his lip, he slowly, _slowly_ shifted Matt onto his side and…and, yeah, the exit wound was a whole lot bloodier. Also dirtier.

Keeping up a muffled stream of curses under his breath, Malcolm yanked his hoodie over his head, bundled it up, and pressed it against the jagged hole. “C’mon, Matt,” he whispered. “Hold on for me.”

In less than ten minutes (it felt like hours), he heard tires pull up. Malcolm jolted; this was it, the last chance to change his mind, stuff Matt out of sight in a dumpster somewhere, and try to smooth-talk Dani into forgetting any of this ever happened.

A door opened. Malcolm quickly tugged Matt’s mask back over the upper half of his face, pretending he didn’t notice how gray Matt’s skin looked even in the yellowish lights.

Dani jogged towards them, only to skid to a stop a few feet away, squinting in the dark, her curly hair backlit. “What the hell am I looking at, Bright?”

Well, now he had to commit. “Hi, Dani,” he said weakly.

“Is that _Daredevil?_ ” And the next thing he knew, her gun was drawn.

“Dani, no!” Malcolm jumped up to stand between her and Matt, hands raised (one of them significantly bloodier than the other). “Shhh, it’s fine, he’s just—”

“Is that a _gunshot wound?_ ”

“ _Yes!_ Which is why we _need your help_.”

Her wide eyes were glued to Matt. “Who did that? Did _you_ do that?”

“What? No! We were taking down Jacob Luffman, he was trying to, um, break into the office here. But he had a gun, and—seriously, can we talk about this later? Preferably before he bleeds out?”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“Hospitals aren’t safe,” Malcolm explained hurriedly. “We’re taking him to my place. He’s got a nurse friend meeting us there, but I don’t have a car and I can’t exactly call a taxi when he’s…you know…” He trailed off. “Please, Dani.”

She chewed on her bottom lip. “Fine,” she said at last, voice curt, giving away nothing. “I’ll drive you.” She holstered her gun, brushed past Malcolm to get to Matt, and before Malcolm realized what she was doing, snapped a cuff onto one of Matt’s wrists.

“Hey!” Malcolm yelped, crouching over her shoulder. “What’re you—”

“He’s a vigilante.” She shifted Matt— _not_ gently—and jerked his other am under him so she could lock his wrists together behind his back. A moan escaped Matt’s lips and more blood trickled out from under Malcolm’s hoodie.

“Be careful!” Malcolm said desperately.

Dani glared daggers at him. “You realize I could get fired for this as it is?” When Malcolm didn’t come up with a response fast enough, she shook her head. “Just help me get him in my car.”

“Thank you,” he breathed.

“I can’t _believe_ I’m doing this.” She crouched by Matt’s shoulders and gestured impatiently for Malcolm to take Matt’s lower half. “Okay, lift on three. One, two…”

They lifted together, straining against Matt’s weight. Malcolm struggled to keep the sweatshirt positioned against Matt’s wound, and he felt the sharp and too-familiar tear of a few of his stitches ripping. Biting back a groan, he pretended he hadn’t. At least Dani seemed to be concentrating too much on moving the vigilante to keep interrogating Malcolm, although he knew she’d start up again the second she had the chance.

Finally, they got Matt stretched out in the back of her car. Malcolm panted, trying to keep his injured side out of Dani’s line of sight. He wasn’t bleeding through his clothes yet, but his skin felt dangerously wet under his thin t-shirt. He was so focused on this secondary problem that he almost didn’t notice Dani lingering by Matt’s head, her eyes on his mask.

His mask which, lit up by the car’s interior lighting, definitely didn’t look see-through.

“Gotta go,” Malcolm blurted out. “Remember? We have to hurry.”

With one last, suspicious look, Dani slammed the door shut by Matt’s head and slid into the driver’s seat. “Your place? You’re sure?”

He held her gaze. “I’m sure.”

“Your funeral,” she muttered, but he could’ve sworn there was a hint of curiosity in her voice as she put the car into drive.

He shifted in his seat, trying to inconspicuously put pressure on his own knife-wound, hoping he’d be able to grab a jacket or something before she noticed the growing bloodstain. It had definitely spread to his shirt by now; quickly-cooling dampness was weighing down the fabric. The quiet in the car felt like a weighted blanket.

“Dani,” he began.

She didn’t look at him. “Don’t say it.”

Guilt gnawed at him. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but you see why now, right?”

Her hands just gripped the steering wheel tighter.

“Thank you for helping us,” he said quietly.

“ _Us_ ,” she growled.

“Look, I—I know I’m not just asking you to trust me here. I’m asking you to trust him, too. I know that.”

“This isn’t about trust.”

Yes, it was, but she’d never in a million years admit that. Not after she’d already admitted that she had issues with trust. No, whatever arguments she made when everything finally came to a head, they wouldn’t be about anything nearly so personal—so _vulnerable_ —as trust. It would be something clinical. She’d hide behind procedure as long as she could.

Fortunately, Malcolm had a pretty good idea how to get around that.

~

Malcolm was well aware that it was complete luck that no one at his apartment noticed them dragging a bleeding vigilante into the elevator. He felt like a lot of the parts of this plan were luck, but he’d deny it if asked. Besides, at least Malcolm’s apartment _had_ an elevator. It was still a struggle supporting Matt with mostly one arm while Malcolm’s other hand fished his keys out of his pocket, but they made it inside at last. Malcolm steered them past Sunshine’s cage. “On the bed,” he grunted.

Dani made a face as she shuffled along. “You don’t wanna put towels down or something first?” she asked, nodding at Matt’s blood-soaked shirt.

“The _bed_ , Dani,” Malcolm said urgently. Matt’s skin was turning steadily from gray to white.

She scowled, but together they got Matt laid out on Malcolm’s bed. Ignoring how totally out-of-place the bloody, black-clad vigilante looked in the fancy loft, Malcolm picked up one of his own restraints. “Uncuff him. We can use these.”

Dani folded her arms across her chest. “No.”

“Dani…”

“If I end up arresting him, I don’t wanna have to redo it.”

And, yeah, Malcolm could only imagine how terribly it would go if she had to transfer Matt from one set of restraints and back again while Matt was actually conscious. But that was totally missing the point. “You can’t arrest him!”

“Assault, assault with a deadly weapon, menacing of police officers,” she listed off, “not to mention—”

“He’s not a bad guy,” Malcolm argued.

“—not to mention some strong cases for manslaughter, and—”

“ _Manslaughter?_ Seriously?”

“—unlawful wearing of a body vest,” she finished, eyes narrowed into slits.

A _body vest?_ This was just ridiculous. Malcolm gritted his teeth. “He’s not the bad guy.”

“Maybe not,” she said steadily, “but that’s not my decision to make. I arrest the people who break the law, and it’s up to the prosecutor to decide whether to—”

“You think a prosecutor’s gonna be fair to him?”

“—to bring charges, and _then_ it’s up to a jury whether he gets convicted. I can’t just not arrest him, Bright, it’s _not my call_.”

Malcolm searched her face. “C’mon, Dani,” he said softly. “I know you better than that.”

Dropping her chin, she wrapped her leather jacket tighter around her like armor. “Don’t do that. Don’t do that creepy profiling thing on me.”

He took a deep breath. “Do you remember when Gil gave you a second chance?”

Now her eyes lifted to the ceiling and she started shaking her head. “It’s not the same.”

“It’s never the same. And the world isn’t black-and-white. This guy, right here? He’s trying to help people. Same as us. He just does it…differently than we do.”

“I’ll say,” she muttered, but she wet her lips the way that she only did when she was nervous, or uncomfortable. If she were still dead-set on arresting Matt, she wouldn’t be uncomfortable. She’d just be doing her job.

Malcolm pressed his advantage. “Right now, the system isn’t working. I’m on my own to stop Jared from killing another person, and I’m on my own to keep a young woman out of prison. Except for him.” He paused. “And maybe…except for you?”

She glanced towards Matt.

“Just give me a chance,” he whispered. Asking for her trust, though not in so many words.

“Fine.” She turned on her heel and walked into the kitchen—for water and, more importantly, for distance. “I won’t arrest him. Not yet. But I’m not uncuffing him either.”

So she still didn’t trust Matt. Fair, that was smart. But she _did_ trust Malcolm, in spite of everything, and he’d be lying if he said that didn’t light a warm spark somewhere in his chest.

Before he could figure out what to do with that, there was a staccato knock on the door. Malcolm scrambled to open it for a woman (Puerto Rican, if he had to guess, and almost as beautiful as Dani) who barely spared him a nod before sweeping past him into the apartment. Her eyes found Matt immediately and she went straight for the bed where she dropped a giant duffel bag, unzipped it, and knelt to dig through it.

“Hey!” Dani barked, hand hovering over her gun. “Who are you?”

The woman—Claire, Malcolm assumed—turned and her eyes widened at the sight of Dani. She shot to her feet. “Is that a cop?” she hissed at Malcolm from the corner of her mouth.

“It’s okay!” Malcolm put himself between them, one arm extended towards each of them. “Dani, this is that nurse friend I told you about. Claire, this is Dani.”

Claire spoke through gritted teeth: “Why would you tell her my name.”

“Uh, because…you’re not under arrest?”

Clare still looked like she was five seconds away from murdering Malcolm. “And what about _him_?” she demanded, jerking her thumb over her shoulder at Matt.

“I’m not arresting anyone,” Dani informed her icily. “Unless I have to.”

“What constitutes _have to_?”

“Ladies,” Malcolm pleaded. Matt was still bleeding.

Claire glowered at him. “I just hope he made the right choice, trusting you.” And with that parting shot, she was back to her task of digging stuff out of her bag. But a second later, she whirled around again. “You _cuffed_ him?”

Malcolm grimaced. This was a disaster in the middle of a bigger disaster.

Dani looked glad for an excuse to shout at someone. “He’s a vigilante!”

“He’s protecting this city from all the crime _you people_ don’t bother to deal with!”

“Claire!” Malcolm moved in close, trying to block her view of Dani. “Dani’s a friend. She gave me her word she won’t arrest him. Please, he got shot.”

“ _Mierda_ ,” Claire muttered under her breath, whirling around again. “At least get these cuffs off before he loses circulation.”

Oh. Malcolm hadn’t thought of that. He gestured hopefully at Dani.

She pursed her lips. Stalking across the room to the other side of the bed, she wrenched Matt onto his side—triggering a ragged moan from Matt, an angry hiss from Claire, and a wince from Malcolm—and uncuffed him…only to pull his arms around to the front and lock the cuffs around his wrists once again.

“There,” she said flatly. “Circulation.”

Claire ignored her, even though Malcolm could read fury in the lines on her face. She was busy checking Matt’s vitals. “You,” she said, snapping her fingers at Malcolm.

“Malcolm,” he introduced himself.

She ignored that, too. “Get her to look away. I need to check his eyes for a concussion.”

Oh, this was gonna be fun. Malcolm tried to gesture Dani out from around the bed. Dani just crossed her arms again. Malcolm clasped his hands together in a begging gesture. Dani curled her lip. Malcolm finally tugged up his shirt to show her his stitches, not all of them bloody and torn.

And that got Dani trudging across the room. She stood close enough to trace her fingers lightly over the skin just above the wound—and _that_ sent lightning shooting through Malcolm, but…only because her hands were so cold, like always—and said quietly, “I get that he helped you, but that doesn’t make him safe. Or good.”

“He’s good,” Malcolm said. But no, Matt definitely wasn’t safe.

“Okay,” Claire said from behind them, now that Matt’s mask was firmly back in place. “Malcolm, either get me something that’ll hold the blood or come hold it yourself.”

The what? Malcolm felt slightly nauseated as she dug a smaller bag out of her duffel: from its floppy movements, it obviously contained liquid. Huh. He really didn’t mind blood at a crime scene no matter how gruesome, but apparently blood in a healing-type setting kinda got to him. That probably said some weird things about his psyche, things best left to be discussed under Gabrielle’s supervision rather than—

“Malcolm!”

“Right, sorry.” Malcolm didn’t want to waste time looking for something to hold the bag, so he forced himself back across the room to hold it for her while Claire deftly slipped a needle into one of the veins on Matt’s right arm. She’d cut straight through the sleeve of his tight black shirt to get to it.

So. She knew his blood type. Made sense, but Malcolm couldn’t help wondering when Matt would’ve shared such personal information with her. Then again, more and more Claire was coming across as the kind of person who’d hack into hospital records and figure it out for herself.

While he held the blood, she busied herself pushing Matt’s shirt up and cleaning out the entry wound on the front of Matt’s hip, then sealing it with gauze and medical tape and more gauze. Next she climbed around onto the bed to get at the exit wound. There was more sterilizing, and she stitched up some of the torn flesh (Malcolm couldn’t help thinking that Matt would appreciate being unconscious for all this), and finally taped the rest of the hole and pressed more gauze over the whole thing.

After about fifteen minutes, during which Malcolm pretended his arms weren’t getting tired, Claire sighed and silently stood up, taking the blood from him. “Thank you,” she said in a low voice, still watching Matt. “He should wake up soon.”

“He’ll be okay?”

“He always is, eventually.” Now she glanced askance at him. “So, how’d you get lucky enough for him to tell you about me?”

Conscious of Dani in the room and no doubt listening to every word, Malcolm just said, “We have the same priorities.”

To his surprise, Claire rolled her eyes. “Another martyr. Great.”

“I’m not a—”

“ _Shh_.” She suddenly leaned over Matt, one hand on his right arm, the other on his chest. “He’s waking up,” she explained, apparently for Malcolm’s benefit.

And sure enough, Matt’s head had started moving, twitching ever so slightly on the pillow. He let out a small sound, closer to a whimper than a groan. A second later, his right arm moved.

“ _No_ ,” Claire barked, sounding weirdly like someone chastising the family dog. She pressed her weight onto his arm. “Don’t sit up, and don’t even _think_ about ripping out this needle.”

“Claire,” he murmured.

“Yeah, that’s me.” The affection in her tone was brand new. “You’re gonna be okay.”

His arm flexed and he frowned. “What’s…where…why’m I…” Then suddenly he was lurching upright, straining against the cuffs.

“Hey!” Claire grabbed his hands, setting her hands over the metal. “You’re fine. It’s okay. it’s just a precaution.” She raised her voice, aimed at Dani. “Right?”

Dani strode forward and stopped just behind Claire, hands on her hips, feet shoulder-length apart. “For now.”

Matt’s lips were parted in panic and his heart was apparently beating fast enough to push some of his newly-acquired blood right back out of his body. “You’re—” He tried to drop his voice down to its growly register, but he was too freaked out to really pull it off. “What’re you doing here? Who called you? They—they didn’t do anything! If you have a problem, it’s with _me_ , _I’m_ the—”

Claire snapped her fingers next to his ear; Matt visibly flinched. “ _Cálmate_ ,” she whispered in a smooth Spanish accent. “ _Ella es una amiga de Malcolm. Prometió que no arrestaría a nadie._ ”

Matt froze, apparently taking that in. “¿ _Vio mi cara?_ ” he whispered back, accent rough and voice tight with pain.

Claire shook her head. “ _Cálmate_ ,” she repeated, “ _y por favor, no confesieses a nada_.”

Malcolm exchanged a confused look with Dani, who just shrugged without moving her eyes away from Matt, who still looked like he was about to…do something, Malcolm wasn’t sure what.

“Okay,” Claire said loudly. “I stopped the bleeding and cleaned the wound out as best I could, but I’m still thinking, for _once_ —”

“No hospitals,” Matt cut in through clenched teeth.

Claire gave Malcolm such an irritated _look_ that Malcolm instantly felt guilty. Guiltier. But she rolled her eyes at his expression and said, “I’m only glaring at you because I have to glare at someone and _he_ won’t care.”

That didn’t seem fair, but Claire obviously wasn’t someone you argued with.

“Claire.” Matt’s face was tight with panic and Malcolm guessed that, under the mask, his eyes were wide. “You did a good job, now just leave it.”

Claire pressed her own face into her hands and mumbled a string of words in Spanish that Malcolm assumed were not ones he should repeat unless he wanted to get punched in the face.

“It didn’t hit any bones,” Matt insisted, “and there’re no fragments inside. I don’t need a hospital, Claire, please…”

Claire rolled her eyes at Malcolm again. “You see what I deal with? _Every time_.”

Figuring it was best not to get in the middle of this, Malcolm just made a noncommittal but vaguely sympathetic humming noise.

But Matt was apparently determined to drag him into the middle anyway, wincing as Claire ducked in to adjust the needle that had apparently gotten jostled in his arm. “Check on Malcolm,” he ordered through clenched teeth, jerking his head in Malcolm’s direction.

Claire pulled up sharply. “What?” she asked.

“What?” Dani asked.

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“The stitches,” Matt argued. “They shouldn’t…shouldn’t’ve come out again. My bad. Sorry.”

Malcolm grimaced under Dani’s scrutiny, not wanting to watch her piece it all together, but it didn’t matter; Claire did it verbally for all of them as she rounded on Malcolm. “You got hurt? He stitched you up? And then you tore your stitches and _didn’t tell me?_ ” She huffed loudly and turned in exasperation towards Dani. “They don’t pay me enough for this.”

Matt immediately looked guilty.

“Oh, um.” Malcolm reached in his pocket for his wallet, only to freeze when Claire shot him a dangerous look.

“Don’t you dare,” she said quietly. “Couch. Now.”

Malcolm really didn’t want to argue with Claire and he _really_ wasn’t opposed to someone fixing up his stab wound, but he still felt like a kid at the principal’s office as he sat gingerly on the edge of the couch, avoiding Dani’s gaze. Matt slowly relaxed (kind of) back onto the bed while Claire dragged her bag over to Malcolm. She cleaned the wound efficiently (it stung, but Malcolm had had way worse), then started gently pulling out the broken stitches.

“Thank you for calling me,” she said almost in a whisper, eyes on her work. “Even though your friend’s not happy.”

Malcolm was indignant. “I couldn’t just let him _die_.”

“Still.” Her eyes darted up, met his for a second, and flicked back down again as she started redoing the stitches. “He doesn’t…” She paused, wet her lips. “He doesn’t usually have someone. To help him.”

Yeah. That was pretty obvious, and Matt was listening, so Malcolm said nothing. The room fell into silence as Claire kept working, punctuated only by Sunshine’s occasional flutter of movement in her cage.

Until, suddenly, Dani sighed. Malcolm watched nervously as she strode across the room, arms folded over her chest, and stopped next to the bed. Matt hadn’t moved, but there was a new tension in his entire body.

Claire’s hands stilled.

“Don’t freak out,” Dani muttered, the words sounding dredged out of her. “I’m gonna uncuff you. But if you try to get up, I _will_ shoot you again, and this time it’ll be somewhere your nurse friend won’t be able to help.”

Malcolm was torn between shock that she was even considering removing the cuffs and being fervently thankful that he wasn’t her enemy.

Matt seemed to realize the precariousness of his situation because he didn’t make a snarky comeback. He held perfectly still as Dani unlocked the cuffs, then stepped back and hooked them on her belt.

Claire raised her eyebrows at Malcolm, although he didn’t know her well enough to know what that expression meant. A second later, she tied off the stitches and pressed a fresh bandage over everything.

“I’m good to go?” Malcolm asked. When she nodded, he stood up and took in the room. “So, um…does anyone want tea?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah so I looked up all the crimes Matt could be accused of committing, and some of them are kinda hilarious. Like unlawful wearing of a body vest. Anyway.
> 
> Malcolm is just...the sweetest bean. I love him.


	24. Teamwork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the title and had to actively resist putting "(ha)" at the end. Teamwork, what teamwork?

Malcolm

His offer was met with incredulous, confused, and amused silence from Claire, Dani, and Matt each. Claire’s eyebrows seemed like they’d be permanently stuck too high up on her forehead, Dani’s eyes narrowed slightly like he was a puzzle she was trying to figure out, and Matt just looked vaguely like he wasn’t convinced this whole thing wasn’t some weird shock-and-blood-loss-induced dream.

“…I make good tea,” Malcolm defended himself. “I have earl gray,” he added, remembering how Dani used to bond with her grandmother over the drink. (Dani responded to this with a hesitant half-smile, like Malcolm remembering her favorite tea was the only normal thing about this night and she was determined to appreciate it.) “And…coffee?” he guessed, aiming this at Claire.

Claire’s shoulders relaxed at the mere suggestion. “How did you know?”

Malcolm flashed her a smile. “Context clues,” he said as he headed into his kitchen to start the drinks, which also gave him a good opportunity to observe everyone else. Claire lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, close enough to Matt to reassure him and keeping herself between Matt and Dani. Dani, meanwhile, stood even with the door. Subconsciously wishing she could leave, maybe? Malcolm felt a stab of regret. He kinda thought Dani and Matt might like each other, if they just go to know each other.

Sadly, that was never gonna happen.

“How long have you been doing this?” Dani asked suddenly, the words directed at the vigilante.

Who obviously _knew_ that, but didn’t answer.

“Daredevil,” Dani added pointedly.

Matt sighed. “Couple years.”

“Why do you only operate in Hell’s Kitchen?”

Malcolm groaned under his breath. This wasn’t friendly conversation; this was a low-key interrogation.

“Maybe I’ve only been caught operating in Hell’s Kitchen,” Matt shot back.

Dani scoffed quietly. “You know you’re kinda getting in our way, right?”

“Am I?” Matt asked stiffly.

“Not that you’d know anything about this, but police procedure exists for a reason.” Dani’s voice sharpened. “We can’t just beat confessions out of people, and I don’t care how many guys you drop off at a precinct: _their_ confessions are tainted, too, if a defense attorney comes out and says their client only confessed because Daredevil promised to beat them up otherwise.”

Malcolm wasn’t sure that was quite accurate. At least, he hadn’t heard any reports about invalid confessions in connection with the guys Daredevil turned over. But then, he was usually more interested in elaborate murders than in the kinda crimes Daredevil stopped.

“You’re saying you wish there were less scrutiny directed at your officers and their interrogation techniques?” Matt asked coolly.

“ _Oye_ ,” Claire whispered at him. “ _Tranquilo._ ”

“At least we know what accountability is,” Dani snapped. “I don’t see anyone watching over your methods. How do we even know you’re going after the right people?”

Matt laughed, a sound low and dark and dangerous. “Because you always know who the right people are? Not like you only show up five minutes after the crime’s over, when the victim is sobbing and the bad guy’s in the wind? That’s _if_ the victim is even able to convince you there was a crime in the first place!”

Dani opened her mouth.

The teakettle interrupted with a shriek.

“Tea!” Malcolm announced loudly. He poured Dani her mug just as the coffee maker light switched on. Malcolm passed around drinks (Matt refused a mug of anything and just lied flat on the bed, apparently staring moodily up at the ceiling) which were too hot to sip, and an awkward silence fell.

Sunshine chirped mournfully, like she was unhappy with the tension as Malcolm was.

“So,” Malcolm said. “Claire. You, um, you speak Spanish?”

Claire kind of looked like she was taking pity on him when she said, “It’s my first language.”

“Cool,” Malcolm said.

“You speak anything else?”

Malcolm shook his head, a little guiltily.

Claire shrugged.

“And you’re a nurse or something, right?” Malcolm asked, hoping to avoid either silence or giving Matt and Dani the chance to keep fighting. “Where do you work?”

Claire glanced at Dani. “Yeah, no, I’m not answering that. Sorry.”

“Right,” Malcolm said quickly. “Sorry.”

Dani drummed her fingernails against the rim of her mug.

Claire cleared her throat. “What about you? What do you, um…do?”

“Criminal profiler,” Malcolm answered.

Claire’s expression tightened. She prodded Matt in the side of the leg. “ _¿Eres un idiota?_ ”

“Yeah,” Matt admitted readily.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Claire turned back to Malcolm. “How’d you get into profiling?” she asked politely.

“Oh…um.” Malcolm wished he’d gotten himself a drink, if only to have something to fidget with. He gestured vaguely. “Y’know, just…abnormal interested in psychology. Technically, abnormal interest in _abnormal_ psychology. Ha…” He trailed off weakly.

Claire could not have looked more disbelieving if he’d said he joined because his father was a famous serial killer.

Dani abruptly walked across the room to set her mug on the counter. “Well, this has been fun, but I’ve gotta go.”

Claire and Matt immediately had identical looks of wariness on their faces. Well, on her face and on the bottom half of Matt’s face. Malcolm hurried after Dani as she headed to the door, the too-fast movement tugging at his stitches. He caught her arm. “Dani, wait—”

“What?” she demanded, voice prickly, glaring up at him. She knew exactly what he wanted.

He lowered his voice. “You can’t tell them, Dani. Any of them. About anything that’s happened tonight.”

Her expression was unreadable. “Are you even coming in tomorrow?”

“Um.” Malcolm glanced over his shoulder. Matt seemed like he’d be okay, but Malcolm didn’t know how long Claire planned on staying, and they still had to plan their next move.

Dani followed his gaze. “I thought so.”

She sounded so _resigned_. “C’mon,” he whispered. “This is important. You know that.” Some things were more important than procedure. More important than the job. Didn’t she understand that?

“So, what, you want me to lie for you?” Her eyes locked onto his, piercing. “If Gil asks about you, and you know he will—”

“Tell him to call me.”

She pressed her lips into a thin line. “So you can lie to him yourself?”

The new note in her voice caused a pang to shoot through Malcolm’s stomach. It wasn’t skeptical, the way a colleague should be over hearing that another colleague was planning on lying to their boss. Dani sounded _hurt_. Like lying to Gil was as bad as lying to her.

Well, they’d both been rescued by Gil when they were in over their heads. It was a bond between them. So maybe that made sense.

“I’ll tell him as much as I can,” Malcolm promised.

She threw up her hands. “Which is how much, exactly _?_ ”

Painfully little, that was what. Malcolm lowered his voice even more (although he was horribly aware that Matt could still hear it). “You think I like this any more than you do?” he hissed. “Gil’s—” He cut himself off. She knew what Gil was to him and he didn’t want to spell it out like this.

Dani had no mercy. “So _do_ something about it.” And with that, she turned on her heel and left the apartment, letting Malcolm’s door slam shut behind her.

He rubbed at the side of his face, suddenly exhausted. (The exhaustion wasn’t sudden. It had been building for days now, continually repressed by adrenaline, caffeine, and a self-induced placebo effect when he tried to convince himself that meditation could actually make up for his wrecked circadian rhythm).

A hand on his shoulder made him jump, but it was just Claire with her bag over her shoulder. He was so shocked by the worry in her eyes that he couldn’t think of anything to say.

“You taking care of yourself?” she asked softly.

Why was she asking him? She should be worrying about Matt.

“I know what it’s like,” she went on, lowering her voice even though she had to know Matt could still hear. “Being dragged into his orbit.”

“I wasn’t—I wasn’t dragged.”

“Really?” She squeezed his shoulder a little. “Then I guess I should be even more concerned. _Are_ you taking care of yourself?”

“Who has time for that these days?” he quipped.

She drew her hand away. “It’s hard trying to help people who won’t help themselves. You know that, right?”

“I don’t need your—”

“But against my better judgment, I keep doing exactly that.” She jerked her head back towards Matt. “Ask him for my number. If you get yourself into more trouble…the kind where a hospital might not be the best place for you…”

Malcolm blinked, stunned. “Uh. Thank you.”

“No,” she said quietly, even though Matt could definitely still hear it. “Thank you.” And with that, she slipped out the door.

Malcolm couldn’t help feeling relieved as he locked the door. He hadn’t thought about how hard it would be, throwing four people like that in a room together. Turning around, he was about to go check on Matt when he noticed the two mugs side-by-side on his counter. Claire had set hers right next to Dani’s.

That might not mean anything. But there was a tiny glow of optimism deep in Malcolm’s chest as he pulled a chair over by the bed.

Matt bit his lip, then dragged his mask up off his face, revealing sweaty hair and tired eyes. “I’m sorry.” His voice was muted. “I didn’t…I never wanted to come between you and your friends.”

This was more like familiar territory. Just him and Matt and one of them apologizing. _You didn’t,_ Malcolm wanted to say, but…that wasn’t totally true. “It’s not your fault,” he said instead.

“But it is.” Matt’s eyes were still aimed towards the ceiling, but Malcolm knew better than to think that meant he wasn’t listening in on Malcolm’s breathing and heartrate and whatever else. “Do you, uh…do you think she’ll forgive you? For working with me?”

“It’s not working with you that’s the problem. Not really.” It always came back to trust with Dani. Malcolm had shown trust in her when he reached out, but he knew he lost ground there with each second that he kept Matt’s secret. He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

Matt’s mouth quirked sadly. “Kind of does, if you work with her.”

“Well, this might be my last case anyway,” Malcolm said, the end of the sentence twisted around a yawn.

Matt froze halfway to (stupidly) sitting up. “What? Why?”

“Uh, the DA. She tried to threaten me off the case.”

Matt snorted. “ _I_ tried to threaten you off the case. It didn’t work.”

Malcolm picked at a loose thread on his sweater. “All you did was threaten to break my arm. Not that bad, in comparison.”

“…What?”

“She said, uh…she found out who I am. Who I _really_ am.” He forced a weak smile even though he wasn’t sure why he bothered; it wasn’t like Matt could see it. Habit, though. So used to making sure _other people_ felt at ease whenever he brought up his serial killer father. “Who my father is.”

Matt slumped back on the bed, gritting his teeth and wincing. “I’m…I’m sorry. She’s…”

“And that’s not the worst part.” Malcolm dropped his head into his hands, so tired. “She said she’ll go to the media. Make sure there’s not a single person in New York who doesn’t know I’m my father’s son.”

“But— _ngh_.” At the sound, Malcolm looked up to see Matt struggling to sit up again, grimacing. “I’ll talk to her, Malcolm, don’t worry.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Calm down, there’s nothing you can do. I mean, she said it’s not even slander if it’s true, and you can’t just punch her for—”

“It’s a _crime_ ,” Matt snapped, clapping a hand over his bullet wound like he could literally muffle the pain as he leveraged himself upwards.

Malcolm hovered his hands awkwardly in front of Matt’s shoulders. He could _probably_ push him back down, but Matt would definitely fight him, which would just make everything worse. “Please lie down, it’s fine.”

“But you have a legal right to work the case,” Matt was arguing. Malcolm finally gave up on expecting him to give any consideration at all to his injury, so he did his best to help Matt stay balanced in a more upright position. The lawyer’s face instantly drained of color, but he had no one to blame for that but himself.

“Matt, please stop.”

Matt ignored him. “So attempting to compel or induce you to— _ngh_ —” He pressed harder against the bullet wound, but all his jostling had caused red to start seeping into the white bandage again, “—abstain from engaging in conduct in which you have a legal right to engage by— _ow_ —” He edged his legs over the side of the bed and hissed through his teeth, “—means of instilling fear of—”

“Hey, Matt, I have a brilliant idea. It’s called _stay on the bed_.”

Matt glared, which wasn’t very impressive only because he was white as a sheet and panting for breath. “If she tries to scare you off this case by revealing the truth about your father, that’s a crime. Coercion in the third degree. Commonly known as blackmail.”

“But it’s _true_.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Matt said calmly, or as calmly as he could while actively trying to undo all of Claire’s hard work, which meant it actually came out kind of stiff and growly. “If she’s instilling fear by exposing a secret that’s likely to subject you to hatred, contempt, or ridicule, it’s a crime— _regardless_ of whether the statement is true or false.”

“…Oh.” Some of the pressure on Malcolm’s chest loosened at that. But not all of it.

“I’ll talk to her,” Matt announced, finally pushing himself to his feet. He swayed.

“What, _now?_ ” Malcolm got in front of him, both to steady him and to try to block him.

“Once the— _mph_ —” Matt took a weak shuffle-step forward, forcing Malcolm to shuffle-step backwards, “—cat’s out of the bag—a lawsuit won’t help you much. People won’t forget what they’ve heard.”

Yeah, and it wasn’t like Malcolm needed the money.

“Gotta get in front of this,” Matt insisted, but his eyes fluttered closed and he slumped until his forehead was against Malcolm’s shoulder.

Malcolm had a weird flashback to being stuck under a collapsing building with him. “Matt, _take a breath_.” He found himself kind of awkwardly petting the back of Matt’s neck. “I know you feel like you need something to fight right now, to make up for the fact that Luffman got away.” (Or because he was pissed at Dani, but it seemed better not to mention her right now.) “But you don’t need to fight my battles.”

Matt huffed a long sigh against Malcolm’s shoulder. “Can’t I fight them just because I want to?”

Malcolm stared tiredly up at the ceiling. “Fine. Yes. But do it over the phone or something. You’re not allowed to get up.”

Another disappointed sigh, this one with a hint of resignation.

“C’mon, Matt, you know I’m right. You’re gonna pass out if you keep this up.”

Matt didn’t respond, which Malcolm took as a sign that he didn’t have an argument.

“Here we go,” Malcolm murmured, nudging Matt backwards until the other man ended up back on the bed, looking like a petulant kitten caught out in a rainstorm. “Now just… _stay there_ , okay?”

“For how long?” Matt asked mutinously.

“Good question. I’ll ask Claire—”

“ _Don’t_ ask Claire. She doesn’t agree with how much I can handle.”

Ah. Malcolm was getting an even clearer picture of their relationship. “So you’ll call her to stop you from bleeding out, but then you won’t listen to her advice for aftercare?”

“She’s not actually the best judge of what I need,” was all Matt said in an exhausted, outward breath.

Malcolm sat back down on the chair by the bed, looking at his hands. There was still blood on his skin. Matt’s blood. “She seemed relieved I was with you tonight,” he said neutrally.

Matt didn’t answer.

Malcolm looked up, frowning. “I mean, if you were alone, there would’ve been no one to…call Claire.”

But Matt directed his next words at the ceiling: “If I were alone, I wouldn’t have gotten shot.”

Wait, was he…implying that getting shot had been Malcolm’s fault? Funny, Malcolm didn’t remember doing anything to help Luffman pull that gun. “That’s what you think?”

“I’m not an amateur.”

Malcolm scooted to the edge of the chair. “And you think I am?” Was that what this was about? Like Malcolm was just…some lost puppy that kept following Matt around, something Matt needed to protect? Okay, to be fair, Matt _had_ rescued him from Dogs of Hell that one time…and, okay, he’d had to help Malcolm when Malcolm drank that spiked tea, but…but Malcolm hadn’t _asked_ Matt to rescue him, and no one could’ve anticipated the danger in the freaking _tea_.

“I never said you’re an amateur,” Matt pointed out, completely dodging the real issue.

Malcolm glared, which was extra annoying knowing Matt couldn’t see it. “You know punching people isn’t _always_ the answer, right? Like what about back when I was with Jared? You came barging in and everything went up in flames, but I was making progress with him!”

Matt let out a startled laugh. “What, after you’d been kidnapped? You think you were making progress? You were bleeding out, that’s what you were doing.”

“And what about Luffman?” Malcolm swept on. “I _had_ him, he was _listening!_ ”

Matt scoffed. “You don’t even know this guy, and you’re saying you can profile him?”

“He’s a father who’ll do anything to get back to his son,” Malcolm shot back.

“You don’t know that.”

“I profiled him!”

“You’re _projecting_.”

Malcolm shot to his feet.

Matt froze on the bed, wide eyes darting around Malcolm’s face. “Sorry. Sorry, I—”

“Don’t say you didn’t mean that,” Malcolm said flatly. “I know you did.” So not only did Matt think he had to protect Malcolm from faceless and nameless bad guys, and not only did he think he had to rescue Malcolm from the big, bad DA, he _also_ thought he had to protect Malcolm from Malcolm’s own skewed judgment.

Nice.

~

Matt

He needed to rewind by a few minutes. Or a few hours. Because he suspected that Malcolm was reading far more into this conversation than Matt had ever intended, and Matt really should learn to just keep his mouth shut following copious blood loss.

He _was_ worried that Malcolm was projecting his own complicated issues onto the case, but that was such a background concern to his worry about Malcolm’s safety. Or more specifically, how much of his own safety he’d ignore.

Matt tried to get his thoughts in order. “Listen, Malcolm, I…” He stopped. Started again. “I shouldn’t have said that. Your profiling is important, and sometimes it’s more effective than violence.” There was so much more to it than just _profiling_ , so much more that Matt wasn’t sure he was able or willing to put into words right now. He skipped over that part; this next part was more urgent. “But the people out there _are_ violent, and I can’t…”

When he hesitated himself into silence, Malcolm spoke up: “Can’t what?”

Matt took a deep breath. “You want to be part of a team, don’t you?”

Malcolm tilted his head. “I mean, who doesn’t?”

“With me.”

Malcolm nodded uncertainly.

“Okay, good. So do I,” Matt said, and he could _hear_ some of the tension release from Malcolm’s body. “But that means we have to be able to trust each other out there.”

The tension snapped back into place. Malcolm’s hand wasn’t trembling, but he curled it into a fist and squeezed tight, like he expected the trembling to start up any second. “I’m not gonna kill anyone.”

“I know. That’s not what I meant.” Matt wet his lips. “I got shot because I wasn’t paying attention.”

“…What?”

Matt picked nervously at Malcolm’s comforter, head down. “I would’ve heard it, normally. The finger on the trigger. The way he shifted his weight in anticipation of the gun’s kick. The hitch in his breathing. Even the way his heartrate changed. All of that, I would’ve heard it and known he was about to fire, and I would’ve gotten out of the way. But I wasn’t paying attention…because I was listening to you.”

Malcolm’s heart thudded loudly in his chest. “I wasn’t doing anything,” he protested.

“But I didn’t know _what_ you would do,” Matt explained. “Last time you were around a bad guy with a gun, you let him put it under your chin. I just…I have to be able to trust you to…” He searched for the words. “To protect yourself. To _prioritize_ yourself, just for a little bit. If we’re out there and you’re trying to martyr yourself at every turn, I won’t be able to _focus_.”

And yes, he knew Claire would be having a field day with this. Foggy, too. Laughing their heads off that Matt was lecturing someone else about martyrdom. Which…fine. They weren’t wrong. But when Matt threw himself in front of a bullet, that was different. He was out there alone. There was no one to distract. The people who cared about him would mourn, he knew that, but they wouldn’t risk themselves trying to save him. They wouldn’t have the chance; it would be too late for them to even try.

Malcolm folded his hands together like a man at a business meeting dealing with an especially irate coworker. “I’m not trying to martyr myself.”

“You’re not protecting yourself either,” Matt countered sharply “Even with Dani, you let her come in here and make you feel like shit, for—for taking care of me, for lying to your friend Gil, for whatever reason—”

“Back off, Matt.”

Well, that was the one thing Matt consistently could not do. “Don’t you think you’re someone worth standing up for? Shouldn’t you draw some lines for your own sake, lines other people can’t just cross whenever they want?”

Malcolm’s voice got very quiet, tinged underneath with a hidden anger that sounded foreign in his voice. “You have no idea which lines I’ve had to draw.”

Still, Matt refused to be deflected by so vague a statement. “Well, you should draw more.”

Malcolm’s heart beat too fast. Whatever lines he _did_ have, Matt had probably crossed two or three of them in the span of this conversation alone. “You can lecture me about protecting myself in the field, Matt. But you’re not exactly qualified to lecture me about how I work with my friends when _you’re_ the one who asked me to—” He cut himself off.

Matt tensed. “Asked you to what?”

Malcolm’s breathing hitched, but he bit back whatever he wanted to say and just rubbed at the back of his neck. “Asked me to call Claire,” he mumbled, which was definitely not what he’d been going to say originally. “She seems cool, by the way.”

Matt could, occasionally, recognize an olive branch when it was thrown in his face. “She is.”

Sighing deeply, Malcolm stood up and started rummaging around by the headboard of the bed. Before Matt could figure out what he was doing, he heard the gentle _clicks_ and realized Malcolm was unhooking the restraints he usually slept in.

Still wordless, Malcolm seemed to survey his apartment before finally choosing the staircase. He crouched next to it and locked the restraints around the base of the stairs. Then he dug around in a closet, pulling out blankets that hadn’t been used in…months, probably.

“What are you doing,” Matt said.

“It’s…” Malcolm held out his wrist. “Almost four in the morning. I’m gonna try to sleep. Emphasis on _try_.”

“…On the ground?” Matt asked dumbly as Malcolm started spreading the blankets out on the floor. On the _hardwood_ floor.

“You’re on the bed,” Malcolm pointed out, the casualness in his voice sounding too forced to mean that his anger was really gone. “And if I tried to lock myself to the couch, I’d probably just flip the whole thing over in my sleep and break my neck, which would be pretty much be the least impressive way to go I can think of, so…”

Guilt strapped itself across Matt’s chest. Malcolm shouldn’t be doing this; if he was so upset with Matt, he should be kicking Matt out, not giving up his _bed_. “I can—”

“Stay where you are,” Malcolm ordered, leaving no room for argument. “You want me to draw more lines?” He snapped one of the blankets for emphasis. “Well, I’m drawing this one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for making them fight again! They honestly weren't supposed to, but Matt went just a little bit too far and Malcolm got upset at being told to value himself, and I'm like...okay, dudes.
> 
> seriously, tho, these guys are just...hypocrites, and only one of them can have a brain cell at a time, and if they just applied the logic they used against each other to themselves they'd both be f i n e but they're not gonna do this and do they even consider how much this author suffers because of them being Like That? No. No, they do not.


	25. Identity

Matt

_Wouldn't it be nice if we were older, then we wouldn't have to wait so long?_

_And wouldn't it be nice to live together in the kind of world where we belong?_

Matt groaned, dragged irrevocably out of sleep by a song so upbeat it should be illegal. Or it should be illegal to be played before…noon. Give or take an hour.

“Sorry, sorry.” That was Malcolm’s voice from across the room and down low on the floor, followed by _clicks_. Footsteps stumbled towards the music, which blessedly shut off a few seconds later. “Sorry.”

“Why,” Matt said, throat scratchy, “do you wake up to such awful music.”

Malcolm made an offended noise. “It’s the Beach Boys.”

Rolling over, Matt pressed his face into the pillow. Malcolm had washed it recently, using a pleasantly unoffensive fabric softener. “Doesn’t make it not awful.”

“What exactly are your standards for good music?”

“What are yours,” Matt mumbled against the pillow.

Malcolm paused to think about it. “It has to distract me from the reality of my existence.”

That seemed like a fair standard, actually. Anyway, Matt was too tired to debate the issue. It would, frankly, be a colossal waste of energy, energy Matt needed to heal. Right now, pain and soreness radiated from both the entry and exit wounds, and he was not looking forward to spending the day sitting upright in a cheap office chair.

“What time is it?” he asked, voice still muffled by the pillow. He should get up. He should call Foggy.

“Seven,” Malcolm answered distractedly. The profiler was a flurry of movement around the apartment and Matt couldn’t quite pin down what he was doing. At least, not until he smelled toast.

Matt rolled back over onto his back. “Are you…making breakfast?”

“I told you I’d have actual food for you.” There was a new smell, coupled with a new sound. Eggs in a pan over the heat of a stove.

Guilt settled heavily in Matt’s stomach. Hyper aware of each tug from his stitches, Matt leveraged himself into a sitting position. “You don’t need to do that.”

Malcolm laughed. “Good luck stopping me with a hole in your side. Oh, and if you’re planning on arguing me into submission, let me tell you that people have been trying that for _years_. Never works.”

Matt was picking up on that pretty quick. Last night’s conversation flashed through his mind, twisting the guilt- deeper. He was silent for a minute or two, listening to Malcolm work, searching for words and mustering the courage to say them. “Listen, about what I said last night, I’m…I’m sorry. I—I didn’t mean to—”

“You meant every word.” This was punctuated by a wet flopping sound as Malcolm clumsily flipped the eggs over in the pan.

Grimacing, Matt picked at the comforter. “All right, that’s true. But I…I acknowledge that I shouldn’t have said it. And I definitely shouldn’t have said it…like that.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

Malcolm was lying; Malcolm absolutely thought Matt should apologize. And this sort of thing was exactly what Matt meant: whether out on the streets or in interpersonal conflict, Malcolm would _always_ lie down on the wire. He’d never protect himself and he’d never even _accept_ a deserved apology, much less demand one.

But Matt thought it would probably undermine his current apology to point that out, so he said nothing.

Then Malcolm sighed, and Matt remembered too late that Malcolm could read his skepticism on his face or voice or something. “Look, you think I let people walk all over me, right? Well, when your dad’s a serial killer and a sociopath, other people seem pretty harmless in comparison.”

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t stand up for yourself,” Matt argued. “Whether it’s to a man with a gun or to your teammates.”

“I’m a profiler, Matt. That’s more important than defending my pride.”

“You’re a person,” Matt muttered under his breath.

Malcolm didn’t seem to hear it; the toast popped up and Malcolm whisked it onto a plate. Matt opened his mouth, but Malcolm cut him off without even looking over his shoulder: “Besides, you let Foggy and Karen lecture you all the time.”

Matt’s mouth fell closed again as he was distracted by the sudden realization that he had no idea the extent of what Malcolm might have read from the interactions he’d observed at Nelson and Murdock.

“Anyway.” Malcolm added the eggs to the plate and brought it back across the room, setting the plate on the bed next to Matt’s legs. The subject was clearly closed. “We need to plan our next move. I think Jared will listen, if we can just find him again.”

With no small amount of relief, Matt refocused on the case. “And the father?”

“He’ll need a lot more work.”

Matt nodded, accepting Malcolm’s assessment. The eggs smelled a bit suspicious, but the toast seemed fine, so he took a bite. It was decent. Of course, toast was difficult to get wrong.

“And just so we’re clear.” Malcolm sat on the edge of the bed. “I don’t think violence is the way to go with Jared.”

“We need to bring him in,” Matt pointed out.

“We need him to _end up_ in custody,” Malcolm corrected. “Doesn’t matter whether we bring him in or he turns himself in or the police arrest him. My team will help now, remember?”

“Even Dani?”

“She’ll follow Gil’s orders. We just have to get them probable cause. Not even for the original murder—probable cause for anything illegal would be enough to get him in custody, and then we can go from there.”

Matt risked a taste of the eggs while he thought about it. Runny and bland. “So you’re suggesting we, what, tail Jared until we catch him doing something illegal? Something preferably not involving his father, unless we want a second murder on our hands?”

“You tail him,” Malcolm explained, not a hint of doubt in his voice, “and let me know when he’s violating a law. I pass the tip on to the team like it’s from me. They swoop in and catch him. Ta-da.”

It wasn’t a bad plan. Especially since it wouldn’t require Malcolm to be anywhere near the target. Which, until Malcolm agreed to prioritize his own safety, was exactly how Matt intended to keep things. “I think it’s worth a shot.”

“Really?” Malcolm brightened. “I mean, right, yeah. Like I said, ta-da. Do you not like the eggs?”

“They’re not as good as your plan,” Matt admitted truthfully.

“In my defense,” Malcolm began, but before he could lay out his defense, his phone buzzed. Matt assumed it was an unknown number based on the confusion in Malcolm’s voice as he answered. “Hello?”

The voice on the other end was low and overlaid with static, but Matt still recognized it instantly. “ _Have you found Jared yet?_ ”

“You gave Luffman your _phone number?_ ” Matt hissed.

“ _Shh_ ,” Malcolm hissed back, hopping off the bed. “Hi, Jacob! Long time, no see. Except not really, ’cause it’s actually barely seven in the morning, and I had a kinda long night last night, no idea why, so I haven’t—”

“ _Start looking today. I’ll call back tonight_.”

The call ended, but Matt didn’t have the chance to resume questioning Malcolm about how Jacob Luffman knew his number because no sooner had Malcolm lowered his phone then it started buzzing again. Malcolm’s head tilted down towards his phone and his breathing immediately sharpened.

“Gil?” Matt guessed.

“I wish.” Malcolm dragged his free hand through his hair, then huffed and held the phone up to his ear. “Isn’t it a bit early for phone privileges, Dr. Whitly?”

Oh. Malcolm was popular with criminal fathers.

“ _Good morning! Listen…_ ” Unlike Luffman, Martin Whitly’s voice came through crystal clear. Because of course his defense attorney would’ve ensured access to phones of the highest quality possible. (As a rule, Matt really could not stand defense attorneys. Foggy was the only exception.) “ _I’ve been doing some thinking about this whole…non-serial-killer case of yours._ ” He sounded distinctly disappointed that the case was so mundane. “ _I have some thoughts on how to keep the whole situation from escalating._ ”

“Let’s hear it,” Malcolm said tightly.

The Surgeon made a satisfied sound, apparently pleased by his son’s reluctant attention. “ _I think you’re going at this the wrong way. Trying to keep the father away from the son? It won’t work._ ”

“You said it could work if we convinced Luffman his presence in Jared’s life would make things worse!”

“ _Well, right, but that’s quite the hypothetical._ ”

Malcolm rubbed frustratedly at his forehead. “You said—”

“ _Because you put me in an unfair position!_ ” the Surgeon interrupted indignantly. “ _You presented your proposed strategy as the only possible solution. Now, listen, Malcolm, you’re brilliant, you got that from me, but you can be a bit…single-minded, at times. Your profiles are good, they are, but there’s more than one way to skin a person, you know._ ”

“A cat,” Malcolm corrected heavily. “You’re supposed to skin a cat.”

The Surgeon made an offended noise, eerily similar to Malcolm’s noise when Matt insulted his alarm music. “ _That’s animal abuse! Besides, a pithy phrase should have pizazz, and there’s nothing exciting about skinning a cat. It’s too easy._ ”

Matt’s eyebrows shot up.

“ _Relax, my boy, you know I’ve never skinned anyone. Although I suppose it would be interesting to see how different people responded to the—_ ”

“You said you had thoughts about my case?” Malcolm interrupted.

“ _Oh_.” A spark of annoyance flared in the Surgeon’s voice, but it was snuffed out a second later. “ _Of course, of course. The case. Yes, I have thoughts._ ”

A pause. “Well?” Malcolm asked testily.

“ _You wanted to try to keep the father away from his son. Well, I think you might be making life harder for yourself than it really needs to be. The father wants, naturally, to be close to his son. So, then, why not use that?_ ”

“What do you mean?”

“ _Let the father bring you to his son._ ”

“I told you, we don’t need help finding the son. My team will—”

“ _Your team might be able to find him, but that doesn’t mean they’ll be able to get close._ ”

Malcolm sighed. “And, what, the father will? They hate each other, the son won’t—”

“ _And yet you keep talking to me._ ”

Whatever Malcolm wanted to say died in his throat.

“ _Now, don’t get me wrong,_ ” the Surgeon went on blithely, “ _you and I don’t hate each other. But there is a certain…tension…at times._ ”

“Tension,” Malcolm repeated, voice strangled.

There was a pause. Thinking it best to covertly excuse himself, Matt pushed himself up from the bed, which basically lit a fire across all his stitches. He failed to stifle a yelp.

“ _What was that?_ ” the Surgeon demanded. “ _Is someone with you?_ ” He suddenly sounded delighted. “ _Did someone spend the night?_ ”

“No, no one, that was no one,” Malcolm rambled. “That was, um, Sunshine.”

“ _…Who’s Sunshine?_ ”

“…My parakeet.”

Another silence. Matt really couldn’t tell whether it was suspicious or just confused; he was too busy forcing his heartrate back to something normal.

“ _Well,_ ” the Surgeon said at last, voice impossible to read, “ _as I was saying. You want to arrest the son, don’t you? Use the father. Wire him, or something. He’ll be able to catch the son doing something suspicious, and then there you go, you’ve caught your prey._ ”

Matt blinked. Apparently the Surgeon and Malcolm were on the same wavelength, even miles apart and separated by all the security of a psychiatric hospital.

“Thanks for the tip,” Malcolm muttered. He hung up.

Matt opened his mouth to ask why Malcolm kept answering his father’s calls, but on second thought decided not to pick yet another fight.

“So.” Malcolm shoved his phone into his pocket. “Guess I’m popular for once.”

“Yeah, about that, _why_ did you give Luffman your phone number?”

Malcolm shrugged defensively. “Better than just punching him. That wouldn’t solve anything.”

“Actually, it would keep Luffman out of our way and away from Jared, so I’d say it would solve quite a few problems.” And didn’t Malcolm say he used to be an FBI field operative? So it wasn’t as if Malcolm didn’t know how to go on the offensive; he simply chose not to. Every single time.

Malcolm rubbed at the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, you’re you.”

“And?”

Ducking his head, Malcolm sat back on the bed. “Think about it this way. Your dad was a boxer, right? I know you don’t like me talking about him,” he hurried to say, hands half-raised, “but, I mean, it’s obvious. I wouldn’t have to be a profiler to know you feel closer to him when you’re fighting.”

“And?” Matt repeated stiffly.

“Think about it,” Malcolm repeated quietly. “The last thing I want is to be like my father.”

Matt let out a slow breath. It couldn’t be more obvious that Malcolm was nothing like his father, and yet Malcolm still seemed terrified that the slightest mistake would somehow prove that he and the Surgeon were the same. But it was really no surprise. Focusing on what Malcolm didn’t want to be would only make the Surgeon’s presence loom larger.

Matt set his plate aside, searching for the right way to say this. “I was told when I lost my eyesight,” he began at last, “to define myself by what I have, not what I lack. Malcolm, you can’t keep defining yourself only by what you’re not.”

Malcolm was silent for a moment. Then he lifted his chin. “I’m a profiler.”

Matt shook his head. “That’s a job. That’s not who you are.”

“I’m…” Malcolm trailed off.

And that was the problem.

~

Gil; about twelve hours later

He’d been at the office all day. His back ached from sitting hunched in his chair, and his eyes stung from staring at a computer screen under artificial light. It was dark outside, a constant reminder of just how long he’d been at this. But Malcolm hadn’t come in at all today. He insisted he was fine (and even texted Gil one of those selfie pictures, in case Gil needed proof that Malcolm hadn’t been kidnapped and relieved of his phone), but Gil couldn’t remember the last time Malcolm had (willingly) not come to the office.

It was time that Gil got some answers, even if he had to dig them up himself.

He didn’t have a picture of Malcolm on his desk. Or even in his desk tucked in a drawer somewhere. He couldn’t risk anyone from the office seeing it. Obviously, the whole office knew Gil’s relationship to Malcolm was deeper than only professional, but Gil knew better than to _advertise_ that. He already let Malcolm get away with too much, let him pull stunts that would get anyone else fired. He didn’t need to put Malcolm’s picture up on his desk like the kid was his damn family.

He was, though.

In fact, now that Jackie was gone, the kid was the only damn family Gil had left.

It would’ve been better for his mental health for Gil to choose someone less…self-destructive? No, Malcolm didn’t tend to actively _try_ to hurt himself.

That would imply that he thought about himself at all.

The kid was gonna give Gil a heart attack. Send him into early retirement. Turn his hair white.

(And he’d be worth it. Not just because Malcolm had saved his life, either, all those years ago.)

This Daredevil thing, though. Gil couldn’t let it go. Malcolm was gonna get himself killed. Or arrested. Or both.

Sighing, Gil pinched at the skin between his eyebrows, watching yet another video compilation of shots of Daredevil. Maybe Gil couldn’t stop Malcolm from affiliating with the vigilante, but that didn’t mean Gil had to stick his head in the sand. He wanted to know exactly who his kid was getting involved with.

Not like Gil was he first member of the NYPD to try to figure out who was under the mask. But Gil had three solid facts that no one else had.

First: Malcolm must’ve had the chance to meet the guy. And if Gil had to guess, he’d say Malcolm met Daredevil _out_ of the mask. If Malcolm so much as opened his mouth around Daredevil at night, Gil figured the vigilante would’ve just parkoured away, or maybe KO’d the kid for being obnoxious. But if Malcolm met Daredevil during the day, when Daredevil had to play by everyone else’s rules or risk getting caught, maybe they’d be able to have an actual conversation.

Second, Daredevil was, in one way or another, connected to the Worthington case. Through the son? The daughter? The mother? The father? Gil didn’t know. But solving a crime that already happened wasn’t Daredevil’s MO, which made his involvement in this case significant.

Finally, Daredevil was the kind of person Malcolm trusted.

The thing was, Malcolm acted like he trusted everyone. But that wasn’t really true. He wanted to _be_ trusted, desperately, and he wanted to be liked, but he was constantly evaluating. He knew better than most how well a wolf could hide in sheep’s clothing. For Malcolm to trust Daredevil, _really_ trust him, the vigilante had to be a good man to his core, where it counted.

 _There_. Gil paused the video. It was terrible security footage that someone had unearthed and put on YouTube, but it showed Daredevil in some decent lighting for about a third of a second. Gil studied it, mentally matching the profile, body type, and distinctive jawline plus what he knew about Daredevil’s approximate height (well over six feet, according to the criminals he brought in, but a little under six feet according to less biased reports) with everyone Gil had seen in relation to Malcolm and the Worthington case since it began.

The man didn’t match any cops Gil knew, which was a relief, since Gil _couldn’t_ ignore something like that no matter what he promised Malcolm. No reporters, either.

But. There was a lawyer….

But he was blind.

Not to mention a _defense_ attorney. Why would a man go out night after night, putting his own life and liberty on the line again and again, all to bring in criminals…and then turn around and argue for their release on some legal technicality?

It sounded crazy. But Gil had seen crazier cases. And crazier people.

Still, Gil didn’t have enough to go on yet. He’d have to observe. And…probably keep his theory to himself, at least until he had more evidence. He didn’t need a lawsuit on his hands.

At that moment, his thoughts were interrupted by a light tap on his door. “Come in,” he called without looking up, still frowning at the frozen image on his screen.

“You’re working late,” Dani’s voice said softly.

Gil looked up to see her standing just behind the chair opposite his desk, clothing creased from the long day, hands tucked into her back pockets. “So are you. What’s going on?”

Dani bit her lip. “I…wanted to talk to you.”

Not a shock, since she was here in his office. Gil gestured at the chair. “I’m listening.”

She frowned, nose wrinkling. But she sat in the chair. Then, instead of speaking, she started twisting her hands together in her lap.

Leaning his elbows on his desk, Gil made sure she knew she had his full attention. “You seemed distracted today.” To be fair, _he’d_ been distracted today. Too busy worrying about Malcolm.

“I…had kind of a weird night last night.”

Gil just nodded. If there was one thing he’d learned about Dani Powell, it was that lobbing questions at her would just make her clam up. She could smell an interrogation coming a mile away. What she needed was to be listened to. She’d come here of her own volition; if he just kept quiet, she’d talk.

Dani took a deep breath. “Bright wasn’t in today.”

Was _that_ what was bothering her? Hmm. Maybe they’d both been worried about the kid. Or, well, maybe there were other reasons why Malcolm’s absence would be a distraction to Dani. Biting his tongue, Gil maintained his silence.

“Did he tell you why?” Dani asked.

Gil frowned. “Are you asking so I can tell you?” He respected the confidences of his team, and she of all people knew that.

“No,” Dani said clearly, meeting Gil’s eyes. “I’m asking so I can figure out if he’s lying to you.”

Gil stared at her. “You mean you know why he was out today?”

She hesitated, but nodded.

Well. Gil leaned back in his chair. “Is he okay?”

“For now,” Dani muttered.

“And what’s that mean?”

“Just that…” Dani hesitated again. It was so unlike her, but then, she never did well torn between two different loyalties. “I think he’s in over his head. With the whole, you know, Worthington case.”

“The Worthington case is why he wasn’t in today?” Gil held up a hand a second later. “Don’t answer that. I respect that you’re keeping his secrets.”

Dani glared at the desk. “Great, because I don’t exactly respect myself for it.”

“I can’t tell you what the right thing to do is,” Gil said gently. “Malcolm Bright makes his own choices.”

“Believe me, I know.” Dani stopped twisting her hands together, now clasping them firmly in her lap and raising her eyes back from the desk to meet Gil’s gaze. “Have you ever investigated Daredevil?”

Once upon a time, a change in subject like that would’ve been a surprise. Instead, Gil smiled ruefully and turned his monitor around so she could see the frozen image of Daredevil in grainy video.

Dani studied the image, then nodded once, as if to herself. She looked at Gil again. “Any leads on who he is?”

Gil studied his detective. She was sharp; if he was missing something on this, she was sure to catch it. More importantly, he knew her heart. There was a kindness there that she kept under a bulletproof vest. “Yes,” he answered. “What about you? If you’re bringing him up, does that mean you’ve been looking into him?”

“Yes,” she said steadily.

“Any leads?”

“It’s a bit more than a lead.” She pressed her lips together. “I think I know who he is.”

Gil felt a flare of pride. “And what do you think we should do about that?” he asked carefully. “If you figured it out, you could make the arrest.” He didn’t need to tell her what an arrest like that would do for her career. He didn’t need to tell her what an arrest like that would do to block out the whispers that she was only on this team because of Gil’s mercy, whispers that wouldn’t quite die no matter how many times she proved herself.

Dani kept her head high. “I don’t think we should arrest him. Not yet, anyway.”

“Vigilantism is a crime,” Gil reminded her, even though he didn’t really need to tell her that either.

“He’s helping people.”

“You get that from Buzzfeed articles?”

Her lips pursed. “I get that from Malcolm.”

Oh. “So when you say you had a weird night last night…”

“Turns out they’re _both_ in over their heads.”

“Really?” Malcolm was infamous for his recklessness, but Gil would’ve assumed the vigilante wouldn’t make the same mistakes. “Do you get the impression that…” There was no neutral way to say this. “Do you think they shouldn’t be working together?”

Dani scoffed. “Do I think they’ll get into worse trouble together than they would apart? Yeah.”

“But…?”

Dani dropped her gaze again. “I don’t know. It seems like…I don’t know.”

Gil waited patiently.

After about five seconds, she looked up. “Malcolm called me because Daredevil got shot.”

Of all the things she might’ve said, Gil was not expecting _that_. “What?”

“Daredevil got shot and Malcolm wanted me to use my car to get them both back to Malcolm’s apartment. His _apartment_ , Gil,” Dani stressed.

“No, I know.” Gil rubbed at his temples. “Is Malcolm okay?”

“Aside from the fact that he was stabbed? I guess. For now.”

“Okay, okay.” Clearly partnering up with the vigilante was making Malcolm even more of an injury magnet than he normally was. “I’ll talk to Malcolm. He has our support now, he doesn’t need someone else dragging him into—”

“That won’t be good enough,” Dani cut in.

Gil tilted his head at her. “Explain.”

“I mean…” She wet her lips. “Malcolm didn’t just turn to Daredevil for help because we wouldn’t work with him on this case. Or, I don’t know, maybe it started that way, but…now? It’s more complicated than that.”

Gil narrowed his eyes. “Explain.”

Dani shrugged uncomfortably. “They’re not just partners in this. From what I observed, it’s like they’re…friends?”

Gil blinked. Malcolm didn’t _have_ friends. According to Malcolm, anyway. No matter how desperately he wanted them.

“So, um…” Dani seemed to wrestle with herself for a second. “I think…look. This is…not our job. As cops. I know that. But. Um.” She squeezed her hands together in her lap. “Gil, I was thinking maybe we should…back them up?”

“I already told Malcolm we’d help him on the case.”

She shook her head. “That’s not what I mean. Daredevil won’t work with us. We need to back both of them up. Together.”

Gil rubbed at his jaw. “Are you telling me, Detective Powell, that you want to take our highly specialized team and surveil, _without engaging_ , our profiler and a vigilante…just to make sure they don’t get each other killed on their criminal justice playdate?”

Dani folded her arms across her chest. “Well, it sounds stupid when you say it like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I officially no longer know what's happening in this story, we're all just along for the ride at this point
> 
> (also, am I still salty that Malcolm didn't stand his ground on the whole "because of you" thing with Gil? Yes, yes I am. I don't think the show meant that episode to imply, as Matt does, that Malcolm is too selfless to accept a (deserved) apology; I think the show maybe meant to suggest that Malcolm didn't deserve an apology from Gil at all, but I disagree, and, yeah, pls discuss.)


	26. Miscalculations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I've missed you!

Malcolm

It took a full day but he thought they actually came up with a decent plan. (Matt ended up reluctantly taking the day off work, insisting it was because they needed to plan even though Malcolm was pretty sure his bullet injury was hurting more than he wanted to admit.) To be fair, it was getting more and more obvious that neither of them had great standards for what made a plan decent. Just _having_ a plan was kinda a step up for them.

“When we find him…” Malcolm took a deep breath and said in a rush: “You need to let me talk to him first.”

Matt half-turned with one eyebrow raised from where he was sitting on the couch, poking at his bullet wound like he expected that to hurry up the healing process. “Excuse me?”

“I know you already agreed not to start with violence with him, but that’s not the only thing I’m worried about. I need to try to get through to him.”

Matt looked bewildered. Understandably. “ _You_ were the one who suggested I tail him and then we bring your team in.”

Right, but that was before Matt started accusing Malcolm of, like…hiding behind profiling and not knowing who he really was, or something. If Matt _still_ didn’t trust Malcolm, after all this time, Malcolm needed to know that. “It’ll take too long,” he argued. “I’ve been thinking. Your client’s freedom is on the line. You need Jared’s confession. Or at the very least, you need him brought in as a witness. Right? We can’t afford to wait for him to mess up.”

Matt was frowning. “But why not—”

“And I know everything you said about martyring myself,” Malcolm swept on, “but I’m not…I’m not talking about that.” He hoped that was close enough to the truth that his heartbeat wasn’t giving him away. He wasn’t _planning_ on throwing himself under anyone’s knife. But, then, he never really planned it. “I’m just saying, maybe I can get him to listen.”

And with that, he braced himself for the inevitable argument.

Which didn’t come. “Okay,” Matt said.

Malcolm blinked. “What? Okay?”

Matt just nodded, inscrutable. “Okay,” he repeated evenly.

“ _Okay?_ ” Malcolm realized he sounded like a parrot, but he was honestly confused. “Do you actually think that’s a good idea, or are you just patronizing me so I don’t run off and do something Gil would call stupid?”

Matt’s short laugh was startled and died quickly. “No, uh…it’s a good idea.” His voice stayed steady, but the fingers on his right hand started fidgeting nervously, a sure sign that he was about to say something a little too genuine. “You’re a good profiler, Malcolm. But…I don’t know how other profilers do it, or what you were trained to do, but it seems to me that, for you, at least, it’s not just, uh…it’s not just putting together facts. It’s…you draw inferences. You look under people’s skin. You…just, you…” He huffed a breath, like he was irritated with himself for stammering. “You care about people. No matter who they are or…or what they’ve done. And they can tell. That’s all.”

Malcolm’s jaw hung open.

Matt cleared his throat. “That being said, I don’t like your father’s plan. I don’t think we should go through Jacob to get to Jared. That leaves Jared vulnerable.”

True, although Malcolm privately suspected that Matt had a bigger problem with the fact that using Jacob to get to Jared made Matt too far removed from the action. Matt was obviously not the kinda guy who liked going through middlemen. Malcolm chewed on the inside of his cheek. “We had a hard enough time finding him before.”

Matt shrugged. “Well, I’m thinking we can still find him with the Dogs of Hell.”

“Um, need I remind you what happened the last time I showed up at the door of the Dogs of Hell?”

“It has to be on his turf or he won’t listen,” Matt insisted. “But this time will be different.”

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, Matt, but you can’t see anything, let alone the future.”

Matt smirked. “I know. But this time, you’ll have me with you.”

Malcolm blinked. “Need I remind you what happened the last time _you_ showed up at the Dogs of Hell? You had to dig a ball of lead out of your arm.”

“Right,” Matt acknowledged, frowning briefly. “But this time, I won’t be in the mask.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” Malcolm blinked several times. “Are you insane? You think you won’t be in danger just because you’re blind? No offense.”

Matt smiled innocently. “I think I won’t be in danger because I’ll be offering them representation.”

“Oh. Huh.” It still wasn’t foolproof, but…there was maybe something to that idea. “And what am I supposed to be? Your nonexistent partner?”

“My bodyguard?” Matt offered.

Malcolm looked doubtfully down at himself, then at Matt. “So…I know you’re blind, but…no one’s gonna believe that. Unless we tell them I’m ex-FBI, but then they’ll probably just hate me more.”

“My paralegal, then”

Malcolm snorted. “Man, I don’t wanna be your paralegal.”

“PI?”

Okay, that actually had promise. Something in Malcolm felt almost guilty about not taking Dr. Whitly’s advice, but he knew better than to bring that up to Matt, especially since he didn’t see any _actual_ problems with Matt’s plan.

Well, no. He saw lots of decision points where things could go horribly wrong. But that was pretty much par for the course for him, so.

Malcolm nodded. “Let’s do this.”

~

They moved out at night. Once they’d mostly nailed down the rest of their plan (and Malcolm had arranged for a rental car to be dropped off at his apartment), Matt spent the rest of the day sitting cross-legged on the floor with his eyes closed. Meditating, apparently. Malcolm suggested yoga; Matt snorted with a derision that Malcolm thought was kinda unfair. But it was cool. Malcolm was secure enough in his own masculinity to try (and fail) at yoga while Matt was off in his head or doing whatever it was he did when he meditated.

Finally, though, they were ready. After a quick stop at Matt’s apartment so Matt could grab a suit and a cane and look slightly more lawyerly and significantly less bloody (he didn’t invite Malcolm in, though; Malcolm tried not to be offended), they headed downtown in the direction of the bar where Malcolm found the Dogs of Hell the first time. Not that they expected the gang to still be there after Daredevil defeated them so thoroughly, but it seemed like a good place to pick up the trail.

They drove slowly with the windows down, Matt leaning out his window like a golden retriever on a road trip. If golden retrievers were capable of brooding. (Terriers and miniature poodles, now, _those_ were dogs capable of brooding.) Before they reached the Dogs of Hell’s old bar, Matt drew his head back into the car. “Turn left.”

“Left, got it.” Malcolm spun the wheel. “What is it? Something you hear, smell…?”

“Little of both,” Matt murmured, forehead creased in concentration. “What’s that building up ahead? Tall, five stories, open floorplan…”

Normally, Malcolm would like to know how Matt thought he could tell the floorplan of a building from outside. In this case, though, it was pretty obvious. “Warehouse. Abandoned.”

“When aren’t they,” Matt muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just have…history. With abandoned warehouses.”

“Um, okay.” Malcolm stopped the car a few blocks down. Matt threw him a weird look. “What? This is a rental. I don’t want anything happening to it.”

With Matt’s red sunglasses on, it was impossible to tell if the other man was rolling his eyes as he got out of the car.

Whatever. Malcolm locked the doors and fell into step beside him. Matt set a brisk pace. “Remember,” he said, voice low, “let me do the talking.”

Malcolm opened his mouth.

“ _Until_ we find Jared,” Matt amended.

Awesome.

The warehouse looked like what you’d expect for a gang hideout. Creepy, full of furtive, shadowy movement. Malcolm couldn’t help feeling a little spike of fear. He was reckless, not stupid. But what was that inspirational quote? Courage isn’t fearlessness, it’s bravery in spite of fear? Something like that.

Anyway.

The Dogs of Hell noticed pretty quick that two guys in suits were honing in on their hideout, so naturally they came swarming. They didn’t bother with being polite about it either; they emerged from random doors (a few guys even came out a window, it looked like) and headed straight for Matt and Malcolm.

“The hell do you think you’re going?” the one in the lead demanded. He was a big dude with teardrop tattoos.

Matt stepped smoothly forward. “Hi, my name’s Matt Murdock, I’m a—”

The guy wasn’t interested in longwinded explanations; he drew back his fist and Malcolm flinched.

Matt, impossibly, did not. Even though he obviously knew what was coming.

His head snapped back as the fist connected, and his yelp didn’t cover the tiny _crack_ that shot through the open air. Matt stumbled backwards, cane clattering to the ground as his hands flew towards his face, but not before Malcolm saw blood dripping down from his newly-broken nose.

“Hey!” Malcolm hopped forward, only to freeze when Teardrops swung around to glare at him. “Whoa, sorry, easy, man.” Malcolm held his hands up at shoulder length, fingers spread. “Easy. My friend was just saying he’s a defense attorney, that’s all.”

Matt, still holding his hands over his nose, made a muffled noise of agreement.

Teardrops hesitated. “What’s a lawyer doing here?”

“Just looking for some clients,” Malcolm said, smiling. “Figured any one of you might need help at some point. My name’s Malcolm, by the way. I’m a PI.”

A rumble went through the crowd of gathered gang members.

“Easy!” Malcolm turned up the wattage on his smile. “I’m on your side, believe me. In fact, I already know one of you who could use some help. Is Jared Worthington here?”

A pause.

Then—

Jared stepped out from the rest of the crowd, brown eyes wide. “It’s you!”

“Hi, yeah, we’ve met.” Malcolm gestured between himself and Jared, looking at Teardrops. “See? We’ve met, we’re cool.”

Jared edged skittishly closer. “What do you want with me?”

“To help you,” Malcolm assured him.

Jared drew himself up. “I don’t need help.”

“Um, I wouldn’t count on that.” Malcolm pressed his lips together in a show of consternation. “See, I’m a PI, like I said. And so I happen to know that you’re about to be in some serious legal trouble. Which is where he comes in.” He jerked his thumb at Matt.

Matt lowered one (bloody) hand. “Madd Murdock,” he said, voice clogged, glasses crooked. “Defend addorney. Plead do meed you.”

“Shut up,” Teardrops growled, batting Matt’s hand down.

But Jared took a cautious step closer. “Murdock? You’re—you’re not my sister’s attorney, are you?”

Matt nodded eagerly; too eagerly, by the look of his wince.

“Look,” Malcolm cut in, lowering his voice conspiratorially before Matt could hurt himself worse, “is there somewhere we go where we can talk? I’ll tell you what I know, he’ll tell you how he can help, and you can decide from there. Cool?”

Jared shot a glance at Teardrops.

“Or,” Malcolm continued more loudly, “we could go on our merry way, and you all can just hope for the best when the NYPD shows up.”

“What’s this about the cops?” Teardrops demanded.

Matt shook his head in the barest side-to-side motion. “Addorney-cliend privilege. Sorry.”

Teardrops’ teeth pulled back in a snarl.

Malcolm slipped quickly between Matt and Teardrops. “What he’s saying is, it’ll hurt Jared’s case if we tell the rest of you what’s going on. And now that you’re involved with Jared, what isn’t good for Jared’s case isn’t good for anyone. But _Jared_ can tell you everything as soon as we’ve talked to him—we just have to talk to him privately first. That’s all.”

Teardrops glared between Matt and Malcolm. Malcolm tried to look as innocent as possible and Matt, as a blind man with a freshly broken nose, was doing a great job at looking non-intimidating.

Finally, Teardrops swore under his breath. “All right, whatever. Worthington, go talk to your lawyer.”

~

Teardrops patted Matt and Malcolm down, confiscating their phones (and keeping Matt’s cane for himself), then dropped them off in a room in the back of the warehouse. No windows, just concrete walls and a flickering lightbulb above them. One door. It was cold. Malcolm tried not to feel like he was walking into some kind of trap. It couldn’t be a trap. Jared was with them, and why would the Dogs of Hell trap Jared in too?

Except that Jared seemed…kinda obnoxious. So maybe the Dogs didn’t care if he was collateral damage?

Never mind. One problem at a time.

There was a low table, some ancient wooden coffee table, and four office chairs with the stuffing falling out. They all sat down (Matt with another wince, like the change in elevation was getting to him). Malcolm noted Jared’s fingers twisting together. The kid was nervous.

He should be.

“Here’s the deal,” Malcolm began.

“Uh, hold on.” Jared pulled something out of his pocket and popped it into his mouth. “Want one?”

“One what?” Malcolm asked dubiously.

Jared held out his hand to reveal two tiny capsules, each filled with an amber distillate.

“Oh,” Malcolm said, feeling his heartrate speed up a bit. “Um.” What was this, some kind of test? Trying to see if they understood him, maybe? Because no one really understood him? Or trying to see if they’d let their guard down, maybe?

Jared was expressionless, blinking slowly as he watched them.

“Whad’s thad?” Matt asked, a slight strain to his voice. Why, because he could tell what was being offered? Or—Malcolm swallowed hard—because he _couldn’t?_ How much did a broken nose mess with his sense of smell? Or taste?

“Jared,” Malcolm tried again. “We’re trying to tell you that—”

Jared’s eyes narrowed. “How do I know you’re not with the cops? You could be recording this. Or maybe you’ll turn around and just snitch. But…” He shook his hand a little; the pills rolled around on his palm.

On the one hand, Malcolm was kind of baffled by the sheer immaturity of the test. On the other…well, it wasn’t like Malcolm or Matt would have a great time going to the cops to report something they’d observed while under the influence of drugs they’d taken voluntarily. And whatever it was, it couldn’t be that bad if Jared had already had one himself.

Right?

Malcolm had been high exactly twice in his life: once in college, and once when a box of drugs exploded in his face. Well, three times, if you counted the nutmeg overdose. And it was the same story each time. The paranoia. The hallucinations. The _memories_.

But.

Jared was watching him.

Anything for a case, right?

This was…this was a terrible plan. If Gil found out, he’d _murder_ him.

But. Gil had no reason to find out.

“Sure,” Malcolm said, and made the mistake of shooting a guilty look at Matt. Who was looking at him. Well, not _looking_ at him. But doing his sensing thing. Or…trying to? He still looked like he had no idea what was going on, was the thing, and under the table his left leg was jiggling nervously.

But after Malcolm reached for one of the capsules, Matt only hesitated a second before following Malcolm’s lead. And when Malcolm popped it into his mouth, so did he.

It didn’t…taste like anything. Malcolm stole another look at Matt, whose expression gave absolutely nothing away.

Jared, meanwhile, let out a slow breath and slouched back in his chair. Relaxed—mostly. If it was a test, they’d passed. “So tell me what’s goin’ on.”

Finally. “Here’s the deal,” Malcolm said, keeping his voice matter-of-fact. “There’s a special team at the NYPD that’s been investigating you for a while now.”

Jared’s eyes flew wide. “But—”

“It’s not public since they didn’t wanna tip you off, but they know the NYPD arrested the wrong person when they got your sister. They know it’s you they want. And from what I’ve turned up, they have enough evidence to hold you.”

Jared turned white. “What?”

Malcolm nodded, still matter-of-fact. (The man who raised Jared had been distant; Jared probably saw sympathy as something foreign and untrustworthy.) “That’s why you need our help.”

“How…” Jared swallowed. “How are you gonna help me?”

“It depends on how much you’re willing to help yourself.” That was supposed to be Matt’s cue, but Malcolm deliberately scooted closer to Jared, locking eyes with him, trusting Matt would hear the motion and wait. Malcolm just needed to lay a little more groundwork still.

One of the first rules of interrogating a suspect was to get them to believe you were on their side. And one of the best ways to do that was by helping them justify whatever they’d done.

(Sometimes Malcolm wished it wasn’t so easy for him to slip into that role.)

This was the time to introduce some sympathy. “Remember who we talked about last time?” Malcolm started slowly. “We talked about your mom, and how she’s scared of you. And your sister, and how she doesn’t deserve what’s happening to her. And we talked about your dad, your real one, and how he still wants to find you.” Malcolm paused. “But what about the man who raised you? Can you tell me about him?”

Jared shifted his weight on his chair. “What, um…what do you wanna know?”

Malcolm tried to convey all his sincerity in this moment. “Whatever you wanna tell us.”

Jared made a quiet noise, more of a scoff than a laugh. “Not much to tell.”

“Because he was never around.”

Jared forced a shrug. “It’s whatever, man.”

“It’s not,” Malcolm said firmly.

“Look…” Jared rubbed at the back of his neck. “Lotsa people have shitty dads. Doesn’t excuse what I did. I know that.”

Malcolm listened carefully, but there was no sign of regret here. Not yet. Jared was stating facts that he himself didn’t even agree with.

Fine; Malcolm just had to coax him into being honest. And soon, before whatever was in those capsules took effect. “No,” Malcolm said, keeping his eyes on Jared’s. “It’s not the same. You did _so much_ for your dad to be proud of. You didn’t do anything wrong. The only problem he had with you was that you were another man’s son. You couldn’t help that. You’re not like all those other people.”

Jared’s head tilted ever so slightly, chin dropping a bit as he considered this.

Malcolm pressed his advantage. “He had one job, right? He was your dad, so his one job was to be there for you. And he wasn’t. He didn’t care.”

Jared shook his head, blinking. “He didn’t care at all.”

Malcolm lowered his voice. “He loved your sister, though.”

Jared’s lip curled. “Until he didn’t.”

“And he still didn’t love you.”

Jared stared at the floor. “Yeah.”

“You had all this anger building up, right? Over years and years and years.” Malcolm scooted closer again, pressing right up to the table. “Every missed game and competition, every missed award and celebration. Each one like a…like a new needle stabbing into you. Until you couldn’t even think about him without it hurting. Right?”

“Easier not to think about him,” Jared mumbled.

“But you couldn’t,” Malcolm breathed. “You had to keep thinking about him. Your mom was always talking about him, and your sister. You couldn’t get away from all the pain he caused.”

Jared sniffed.

“Jared, listen.” Malcolm set his hand on Jared’s shoulder and squeezed. “I get it. My dad was…my dad was awful. I get it.”

Jared shook his head. “You don’t get it. You can’t—I _killed_ him, that’s not—that’s different.”

“Everyone has a threshold, Jared. And your dad pushed you right past yours. That’s what happened, right?”

Jared didn’t answer, but a muscle flashed in his jaw and he swallowed like he had a lump in his throat.

“You didn’t plan it,” Malcolm said softly. “It just all hit a boiling point. You didn’t know what was gonna happen, but then you couldn’t stop it. I get it.”

Jared’s hands curled into fists. “He deserved it.”

Malcolm would be lying if he said there wasn’t a tiny part of his heart that sank. It wasn’t like he’d really expected Jared to start crying over how he regretted what he’d done, but…still.

Anyway. Malcolm pushed on. “Does your sister deserve what happened to her?” he asked, searching Jared’s eyes. “You…you love her, right?”

Jared’s lower lip trembled.

“She doesn’t deserve what’s happening to her right now. Right? You agree with me. You can tell me. I’m not the police. You can tell me.”

Jared’s face crumpled. His mouth opened, but no sound came out; he started shaking his head.

“Yeah,” Malcolm whispered. “I know. But, look, it’s not too late. Matt’s here, see? He wants to help your sister, but he wants to help you, too.”

Jared pressed his face into his hands. “No one can help me.”

Malcolm waited for Matt to take his cue.

Matt leaned forward, clearing his throat. “Jared. I can’d guarandee any oudcome, but I can represend you. Reduce your charges and sof’en your sendence. But there won’d be much I can do unless you come in willingly.”

Malcolm took over again. “What happens when the NYPD team finds you? They’ll drag you in, kicking and screaming, and no one will have any sympathy towards you. Matt can argue on your behalf, but it won’t go anywhere. No one will care.” Jared started to look away; Malcolm shifted and, as soon as Jared looked up at the motion, Malcolm held his gaze. “But listen to me. If you come in voluntarily, and tell them it’s because you wanna help your sister and you wanna do the right thing…then, Matt can help you. Right, Matt?”

Matt nodded.

“So what do you say?”

Jared clenched his jaw. Then, suddenly, like he knew he’d change his mind if he hesitated, he nodded once, jerkily. “Okay. Yeah. What, um…what do I have to do?”

Malcolm tried not to look as surprised as he was. Not that he hadn’t thought they were making headway, but Jared was actually willing to _do_ something? “Um…” He glanced at Matt.

“We’ll dake you do the police,” Matt said, wiping at the blood on his upper lip. “So you can give a stademend.”

Jared’s eyes flitted back and forth between them. “You’ll stay with me?”

“The whole way,” Malcolm assured him, hardly able to believe what was happening but trying to act completely cool on the outside. “You’re doing the right thing, Jared. You really are.” Pushing his chair back, he stood up. “Ready to go?” Better to use all the momentum now before Jared had a chance to second-guess himself.

Jared breathed out shakily, then nodded. He pushed himself up. Matt got up more carefully, favoring his nose. Malcolm stayed close to Jared, both as moral support and in case something went wrong, as Jared opened the door.

And there was Teardrops, idly twirling Matt’s cane. “So,” he drawled. “NYPD’s comin’?”

Jared, Malcolm, and Matt all stopped dead.

“Lookin’ for you?” Teardrops added, flicking the cane at Jared; Jared flinched backwards, bumping into Malcolm.

Not good. Not good. Malcolm slid out from behind Jared. “Hi, listen. We already worked it out with Jared, so we’re just gonna, um, get outta your hair, so you can—”

Teardrops laughed, loud, and then he shoved Malcolm back. Hard. Malcolm tripped over Jared and they both tumbled back into the room, crashing into one of the chairs and the table. Malcolm’s stitches tugged in his skin. Jared went limp.

Malcolm was distracted for a split second by the new cut on his upper arm, straight through his suit, but then he realized that Matt had moved at just the right instant to still be standing, shoulders rising and falling in a way that Malcolm recognized by now meant danger.

Oh, no.

“Matt, don’t—” Malcolm blurted out.

It was too late. Matt swung his fist in a blind punch that looked scarily accurate. It caught Teardrops under his chin. Teardrops jerked back, spitting blood and swearing and yelling about his tongue. He wasn’t down, though. Malcolm scrambled to his feet in time to see Teardrops let a right hook fly.

And there was nothing for Matt to do but take it. The lawyer hit the ground like a bag of rocks, glasses skittering across the floor.

Still swearing, Teardrops kicked Matt’s limp body into the room, spat more blood on all of them, and slammed the door shut in Malcolm’s face. Malcolm heard a heavy lock engage.

Above, the lone lightbulb flickered mutinously.

Malcolm caught his breath. Think, _think_. By the look of things, Jared and Matt were both out of it. Malcolm touched both their throats long enough to make sure they had a pulse; then he stood up, swaying slightly at the head rush. He stumbled to the door, feeling along the frame and the handle. Not that he had much of a plan for getting out of this room with the Dogs of Hell outside, and Matt and Jared both unconscious behind him.

But the door was locked. The door was locked, and maybe Matt could pick it—Matt had managed to break into Malcom’s apartment, and Malcolm definitely had better security—but Matt was out of it. So, so out of it. And Malcolm couldn’t get the door open.

On the other side, he heard men laughing.

Malcolm’s heart raced in his ears. Spinning back around, he crouched next to Matt and slid his hands through Matt’s hair; his fingers came away bloody. Malcolm nudged him, then shook him.

No response.

Malcolm could see his chest rising and falling, only occasionally stuttering like he was trying to cough.

Matt, wake up.

Okay. Okay, maybe Matt had some kind of universal lock-picking thing. That had to be, like, standard vigilante equipment. Right?

Malcolm slipped his hands into Matt’s pockets one by one. Remembered belatedly that they’d been searched already. Remembered more belatedly that Matt was in his lawyer costume, not a vigilante costume. Realized one of his hands was still in one of Matt’s pockets. Jerked away, blinking hard. Wondered if Matt would be offended that he’d thought of his lawyer suit as a costume.

Noticed that his thoughts had gone _very_ far from the actual problems he was facing. Struggled to remember what those problems actually were. And

and then, _whoa_.

Malcolm fell back onto his butt, blinking, as everything—like, the whole world—just kind of…settled, smeared into something soothing. he forgot where he was. or maybe he didn’t, but it didn’t really matter anymore. this place was fine. _everything_ was fine. better than fine. his stitches didn’t even hurt so bad anymore. nice.

“Matt,” he whispered, poking Matt with his toe. “Matt, I’m really…I think I’m…I think I’m _really high_.”

then he giggled, a nice sound that echoed around the room. Matt didn’t respond at all, which somehow made the whole thing even funnier.

somewhere in the very back of his mind, a voice was trying to remind him that this was _not good_. they were in trouble and they were gonna be in worse trouble soon. but for now, it seemed a lot like a waste of everything to worry about anything that hadn’t even happened yet.

right now, his goal was just finding a wall to lean against. a couch would be nice. or a bed. but as long as he didn’t have to hold himself up, that was a win. he melted against the nearest wall, feeling the cold seep into his back from the concrete, watching dust motes float in front of the single flickering lightbulb.

dust. people were like that, y’know? just little specks of dust in the universe, in eternity. _important_ specks of dust. but still dust. which! which was why all the evil out there didn’t really make any sense. it didn’t even accomplish anything. just made little horrible blips in history. so utterly pointless.

’course, it probably helped Malcolm that he was always dealing with death. not that death was a good thing to deal with, but it helped with the whole perspective thing. ’specially ’cause he hadn’t gotten numb to it yet, and didn’t really think he ever would. didn’t really think he ever _could_.

“Matt,” he whispered loudly. “I think people should think about death more often.”

Matt had no response to Malcolm’s plans to create world peace.

well, wait. some people did deal with death, and they still did evil things. all right, Malcolm needed to workshop this a bit more.

that was cool, though. he had all the time in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter took way longer than anticipated to post because basically there was a comment awhile back wanting Malcolm and Matt to be high together and it was too delicious an idea to pass up buuuut kinda hard to implement. I changed the method of dosing them...three times, I think? It still kinda strains the suspension of disbelief, I think, but y'know what, this is fanfiction and if we can't dose our faves to see how they react even if it's not 100% realistic, what are we doing here?


	27. What Happens in Warehouses Stays in Warehouses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Idiots are back!

Matt

Matt gagged on thick blood trickling down the back of his throat as his brain throbbed in his skull. He really needed to stop getting hit on the head, and he didn’t want to know what Claire would say about all the head trauma he’d been sustaining recently.

And oh, his face. More specifically, his nose. He felt like someone had torn it off and replaced it with something heavy and clogged. He carefully patted around his face, feeling the extent of the injury, and immediately noticed he was missing his glasses. He wasn’t wearing a mask, either. Huh.

Anyway, Matt homed in on the tiny fractures in his nose. Wasn’t too bad, really. Claire would want him to go to a hospital, but Claire _always_ wanted him to go to a hospital. Matt placed his hands on either side of the injury, gritted his teeth, and reset the cartilage with a series of sickening _snaps_ that rang in his ears like gunshots.

He shuddered a little. At the feeling, at the sounds, at the pain. Then his eyes flickered open to the usual nothingness, and for one sweet moment, everything was…calm. Like the whole world had narrowed down to this one room, wherever it was, and all Matt had to do was just _be_.

Then the memories snapped back.

The Dogs of Hell.

Jared.

 _Malcolm_.

Matt shoved himself upwards, only to instantly crumple back onto his side as pain flared through his bullet wound, two circles of fire on either side of his body. He was bleeding there too; felt like he was bleeding everywhere, the taste of copper heavy on his tongue. He scraped his tongue against his teeth, flicking it in and out of his mouth, and tried to shake his head. Terrible idea; a low groan escaped him as the throbbing in his brain intensified.

“Goo’morning,” a voice slurred happily above him.

Matt pushed his senses beyond the confines of his own body and…oh, look, there was a mouse somewhere about two rooms over, scuttling along a wall, and he swore he could hear its tiny, rapid heartbeat. It was scared. Hungry. Brave.

“ _Maaaaaaaaatt_.”

Matt tilted his head in the direction of the voice. “Whuh?”

“Oh, you’re awake!” That was…Malcolm. Right. Malcolm.

That made sense. In fact, Matt had the vague impression that he was supposed to be protecting Malcolm. But he wasn’t sure from what. There was one other person in the room, but it was just Jared, and he was unconscious still. There were lots of people in various places outside, but they were very far away by now. Leaving. Besides, most of them were laughing, joking. The jokes were not particularly funny; in fact, Matt found them quite rude. But no one seemed like a threat, that was the point.

“Matt.” Malcolm flopped forward, away from the wall he’d been using as support, and giggled. “People are _dust_.”

Wait.

Matt scrambled to his feet, way too fast for his throbbing head and his bullet wound and the drug currently seeping through his system. He still wasn’t entirely sure what it was, but he guessed he was a minute or two behind Malcolm in terms of feeling its effects. After all, while Malcolm had been exerting himself and keeping his heartrate up, Matt had been passed out.

Door. There was a single door. Matt lurched across the room, fumbling in his pockets for anything he could use to pick the lock. He was wearing a suit, though, and not _that_ type of suit, and he came up empty-handed.

Damnit. No, no panicking. This was fine. Very fine. Hinges, hinges next. Matt ran his fingers across the door, searching for any weak point.

“Don’t worry about it,” Malcolm called from the other side of the room. “Door’s not goin’ anywhere, it’s _coooool_.”

Matt ignored him. He couldn’t get to the pins in the hinges. Time for drastic measures. The door wasn’t as solid as the concrete walls; Matt brushed his hand back over the wood next to the lock, then stepped back, ready to kick through, and

_whoa._

he stumbled a couple steps backwards, senses slipping out of his control like water pouring through his hands as his focus misted away. there were birds on the roof. someone somewhere was making toast, he could smell it but couldn’t pinpoint it. it smelled wonderful. then someone screamed and a siren shrieked somewhere outside and Matt yelped, the echo of his own voice banging around his skull. he clapped his hands to his ears, which did absolutely nothing.

“Matt?” Malcolm was suddenly right next to him, voice laced with concern.

Matt flinched back. dangerous, this was so dangerous. being around anyone when he couldn’t control his senses was dangerous, he knew that, Sick had drilled it into him. but. this was Malcolm. Malcolm who’d taken care of him when he got shot. Malcolm who was just as committed to helping people as he was. Malcolm whose heart was currently beating way too fast because he was _genuinely worried_.

Matt could trust him.

and Matt couldn’t quite help the way he locked onto the profiler’s heartbeat, reeling his senses back in to tie them to the sound. it wasn’t exactly steady, but it was constant, and close by, and not moving up or down or side to side or forwards or backwards. reaching out, Matt’s hands found Malcolm’s arms so he could lower himself to the ground while taking Malcolm down with him, keeping the precise distance between his ears and Malcolm’s heart mostly stable until they were both on their knees.

okay. okay. this wasn’t…that bad.

“ _There_ we go,” Malcolm murmured.

“Can I…can I…” Wetting his lips, Matt rested his hand against Malcolm’s chest, feeling the _thud_ of his heart sync up with the sound of his pulse.

“Better?” Malcolm asked softly.

Matt’s breathing dropped into a rhythm so slow he could barely feel it, but it was working. his lungs were inflating and his heart had settled into the pace set by Malcolm’s. he nodded, eyes falling closed.

he felt safe. calm. like a kid wrapped in blankets. like walking next to his dad. like lounging with Foggy on a late Saturday morning in law school when Foggy finally managed to convince him to stop studying for like an hour, man, c’mon.

“Stop studying,” Matt mumbled.

Malcolm laughed, but it was quiet and muted, not jarring like some people’s laughs. “Can’t help it.”

oh, right, the profiling. Matt tilted his head, opening his eyes to blackness. “You’re…studying me?”

for some reason, the thought wasn’t as upsetting as it should be. as it normally would be.

“…Sorry,” Malcolm whispered, and said again, “Can’t help it.”

“S’okay,” Matt mumbled, firstly because it would be _insanely_ hypocritical for Matt to get pissed at someone else for involuntarily observing things, but also because it was kinda…kinda nice, actually. having someone who actually wanted to look so deep, under all his warped and broken layers, under the blood and bruises and old scar tissue…Matt put a hand on his entry wound, a little harder than he should’ve, and told himself not to think about injuries right now. he leaned in close towards Malcolm instead, close enough that he could feel the heat from Malcolm’s face, way closer than he should be. “Malcolm?”

“What?”

“Who…who profiles you?”

Malcolm laughed again. it still sounded nice. “My sister _thinks_ she does, but I don’t…I don’t let her see all that stuff.” the laughter faded. “I mean. I try not to let her see it. She’s smart, though, so I dunno…” his voice brightened a moment later. “I have a therapist, though, Matt, she’s _great_ , she has these, um, these…” he wet his lips and snapped his fingers until he came up with the word. “Lemon lime.”

Matt nodded sagely. “Lemon lime.”

a good flavor.

Malcolm lowered his voice, wistfully and conspiratorially at the same time. “I got Dani lemon lime. She never ate it, though.”

“How d’you know?” Matt asked, because honestly that sounded like something he’d be able to tell better than Malcolm.

“S’still on her desk,” Malcolm informed him. “She must not’ve liked it.”

hmm. Matt kind of thought Malcolm was drawing the wrong conclusion there, but he didn’t really like Dani and wasn’t sure he wanted to defend her. besides, he could be wrong. Malcolm was the profiler, Matt was the one who wrecked every relationship he’d ever had at least once. usually more than once.

“Dani,” Malcolm echoed. “Dani. She’s so nice.”

Matt snorted. “She doesn’t like me.”

“She doesn’t like most people,” Malcolm reassured him. “S’got, y’know, trust issues.”

Matt blinked. it occurred to him for a second that Dani would probably not appreciate this information’s broadcast, but a second later any concern about that drained away, replaced with: “Well, she clearly trusts you.”

Malcolm’s head tilted up, mouth parting, like he was stunned. “ _What?_ ”

“I mean, y’know…” Matt gestured vaguely. “Helping you get me back to your place. Put a bleeding criminal in her car and didn’t even turn me in.”

“She cuffed you, though,” Malcolm pointed out dutifully.

Matt waved this away. “Told you, she doesn’t like me. The _point_ is, all she had in my favor was your word. So she wouldn’t’ve done all that if she didn’t trust you.”

Malcolm hummed thoughtfully.

assuming he needed a little help reaching the grand conclusion, Matt repeated: “She trusts you.”

Malcolm just hummed again.

Matt frowned, a little offended. “Don’t believe me?”

“Nah, I mean…s’good argument,” Malcolm said encouragingly. “You should be a lawyer.”

Matt snorted again.

“I just…” Malcolm trailed off, cleared his throat, shook his head. cleared his throat again. “Thanks, though. For saying all that.”

a new thought occurred to Matt: the fact that they were still huddled on the floor and Matt’s hand was still on Malcolm’s chest. “We should, uh…” he considered standing up. seemed like a lot of unnecessary effort.

“Yeah,” Malcolm agreed.

“Yeah, what? I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah,” Malcolm said again.

maybe they should stay here a little longer. for Malcolm’s sake. obviously.

~

Gil

The problem with attempting to surveil Malcolm Bright was that it was simply not sustainable. The kid slept an average of four randomly-chosen hours a night; Gil would like to know which hardened operative could handle that and still match the kid’s relentless energy enough to tail him. Gil wasn’t sure how long Dani expected them to be able to pull this off, but he privately knew that sooner or later, someone on his team would make a mistake.

To be clear: his team was _good_. Very good.

It was just that, well, this was Malcolm Bright. It was only a matter of time before he caught them in the act.

Anyway, Gil had gone home from work for a quick nap, then drove over to Malcolm’s place. He and Dani parked their respective cars a block down on either side of Malcolm’s apartment. (JT had seemed a little awkward but resolute when he reminded them that he had a family and couldn’t just stay out all night for non-police business. And it stung, a little, to think about what it would’ve been like to have Jackie to come home to, to tell her what was going on with Malcolm. She’d probably pack him snacks—if she didn’t insist on coming with him.) Gil replied to some never-ending emails on his phone while he waited, until he saw a car drive up to Malcolm’s place.

Gil squinted and then, to confirm his suspicions, grabbed his binoculars. There, in the corner of the rear window, was a tiny little barcode sticker.

A rental, then. The driver hopped out and was met by Malcolm’s immediately-identifiable profile: the kid was in a suit, as usual, with a sweeping peacoat, and he was leaning forward on the balls of his feet, ready to jump into action. The driver handed over the keys, and Malcolm waited patiently until the driver was picked up by another car. Only when the driver was gone did another man emerge like a shadow from the doorway of the apartment: a little taller, a little broader, and dressed all in black.

Including a mask.

Not that this was news to Gil, but his stomach flipped anyway at the visual confirmation, at the sight of the vigilante casually sliding into the passenger seat while Malcolm ducked into the driver’s seat like nothing was wrong.

Friends, Gil reminded himself sternly. Dani said they were friends.

His phone buzzed. Text from Dani. _You see their car?_

 _I’ll take point,_ Gil texted back. He pulled out behind the rental—not close enough to be obvious, but knowing that eventually Malcolm would notice him. But that was why he had Dani; the two of them could trade back and forth to tail the rental. Malcolm was familiar with the tactic, Gil knew, but they didn’t really have other options.

Their path was efficient, not meandering, which was a small relief: if Malcolm realized he was being tailed, he would’ve tried more evasive action. They drove to Hell’s Kitchen, straight for another apartment complex. Actually, they parked around the corner, like they were trying to avoid being seen at the apartment itself. Gil drove slowly back, watching in his rearview mirror as Murdock exited the rental, and…and _crawled up the fire escape_. No flipping like he sometimes did on surveillance tapes, and Gil was slightly disappointed about that; in fact, he was moving in a way that suggested he might be injured.

But what kind of man climbed a fire escape while injured?

Gil kept driving, so as not to arouse suspicion, and turned the corner just as Murdock disappeared into a window on the top floor. He waited for Dani’s text a few minutes later, informing him that the rental was on the move again, and Gil swung back into place while she fell back.

The rental was slower now, taking a leisurely pace through Hell’s Kitchen. Well, until Malcolm suddenly jerked the car to the left, like he’d made up his mind to do so at the very last instant. Gil made a point of driving past the turn, trusting Dani to take it and text him when it was time for Gil to take up his position again.

Instead, she texted him an address.

They must’ve stopped, then.

Gil’s heart sunk when he pulled up and saw a warehouse. Abandoned, by the look of it. He parked across the street and several feet away, hunkering down in his seat to keep watch.

Malcolm and the vigilante—Murdock had changed from all-black to an actual suit—were waiting in front of the building. What they were waiting _for_ became apparent a second later as a small horde of men suddenly came teeming out of the building.

Gil stiffened. Either he was as blind as Murdock was pretending to be, or those were Dogs of Hell.

A brief conversation ensued, and suddenly one of the Dogs lashed out. Not at Malcolm, though. At Murdock, whose head snapped back with the force of the hit.

Gil narrowed his eyes. From what he knew of Daredevil, a single criminal shouldn’t be able to land a hit like that. Then again, Murdock had changed into a suit; he must think it better to deal with this situation as a lawyer, not a vigilante. Interesting. This told Gil several things, first and foremost being that the guy could take a punch.

Malcolm took over, now, gesturing enthusiastically. Gil had no idea how the kid could possibly diffuse the situation, but…Malcolm was pretty good at that, even if Gil didn’t always understand. (Even if Gil couldn’t help wishing Malcolm would leave the conflict-management to someone else for once.) And sure enough, things seemed to calm down. Well, the Dogs of Hell still looked tense, but no one threw anymore punches. Instead, something much worse happened.

Malcolm and Murdock _went inside the warehouse_.

Gil grabbed his phone again. _Are you seeing this?_

 _Yep._ He could imagine Dani’s terse expression with her text.

_Do we go get them?_

A pause, like Dani was thinking.

Then: _If they don’t come out._

Great. Great. Gil rubbed at his forehead. His kid was absolutely going to be the death of him.

~

No matter how late at night it was, no matter how crazy Malcolm’s sleep schedule was, Gil was in no danger of falling asleep tonight. Not on this watch. He stayed alert, gaze fixed on the warehouse. The Dogs of Hell eventually filtered back inside, giving Gil no sign of what was happening.

But about an hour later, a handful of them left. Four. No, five.

Dani was parked on the opposite corner of the building. _Dogs on the move. Six over here._

 _Five over here,_ Gil texted back. He squinted. _And another group. Can’t tell how many._

 _Why’re they leaving?_ Dani asked.

 _You wanna go ask?_ Gil felt a bit bad about the sarcasm. He was just nervous.

A few minutes later: _More just left around back. Can’t be many left._

Gil checked his phone for the time. It was just after three in the morning. _If they’re not out in ten minutes._

 _Understood,_ Dani texted back.

The ten minutes felt like thirty. Gil gave in at nine minutes and forty-two seconds. _I’m going in._

Dani didn’t argue. _I’ll clear the back exit._

Finally. Gil drew his gun (safety flicked off) and flashlight as he approached the warehouse. No sign of either life or movement from inside. He shouldn’t have waited this long.

He burst inside, scanning for any movement in the shadows. Clear. The warehouse opened into a wide room, splintering off to a few side rooms. There were some crates and other containers that Gil was willing to bet contained contraband, but they were far from his priority right now. Gil was much more interested in the fact that one door was shut.

Now that it seemed no Dogs of Hell were left in the warehouse, Gil felt safe enough to turn on his flashlight. His heart dropped at the sight of a few droplets of blood in the doorway.

Dani’s near-silent footsteps came up beside him. “No signs of hostiles.”

Gil jerked his head at the door. “I think they’re in there.”

Dani nodded grimly. “Let’s do this.”

She kicked in the door while Gil kept his gun raised, covering her. But when the wood splintered and the door swung open, all he saw in the beam of his flashlight were two men in suits. Murdock had planted himself in front of Malcolm like an oversized guard dog with an obviously broken nose and eyes that didn’t seem to focus, but Malcolm was laughing.

“No, no, no,” he slurred. “It’s _Gil_. And—and Dani, hi, Dani!”

A more detailed scan of the room revealed another man crumpled on the floor. Unconscious? Dead? Gil darted into the room to feel the man’s pulse. Unconscious. Also recognizable as Jared Worthington.

Well. This night just got a hell of a lot more interesting.

“You caught him?” Dani demanded, bursting into the room on Gil’s heels.

Malcolm nodded solemnly. “Like a fish.”

Standing up, Gil frowned, studying his kid. Malcolm didn’t even seem to be questioning how Gil and Dani had known to show up here, and his eyes were red with an unusual brightness to them. “Are you all right?”

“So, _so_ much better than all right.” Malcolm nudged Murdock. “Right?”

Murdock nudged Malcolm back but didn’t otherwise respond.

Sighing, Gil caught Dani’s eye. “He’s high. Again.”

Dani’s eyebrows shot up as she glanced back at Malcolm. “Starting to think this is a habit for you.”

“ _What?_ ” Malcolm drew himself up, incredibly indignant. “ _Nooo_.”

Gil rolled his eyes. “I’ll take care of it.” He pointed his thumb at Worthington. “You got him?”

“Yep.” There was a certain amount of satisfaction in Dani’s eyes as she drew her handcuffs.

While she arrested Worthington, Gil focused on the two walking disasters. Malcolm was swaying back and forth slightly on his feet, a dreamy look in his eyes, while Murdock’s tongue occasionally flitted out like he was…tasting the air? Or something.

Whatever. The priority was just getting them out of here, getting them somewhere safe. “All right.” Gil gripped the back of Malcolm’s neck, ignoring the small smile that crossed Malcolm’s face at the familiar gesture. “Let’s get you two home.”

To his surprise, neither protested, instead allowing Gil to lead them out of the room.

“Wait, wait, wait!”

Well, until then.

Malcolm dragged his feet to a stop, pointing at the ground. “Matt’s glasses.”

Gil saw them immediately, glinting red under the beam of his flashlight. Snatching them up, he turned towards the vigilante, holding out his hand.

But Murdock flinched away, only to freeze with a strangled yelp. And then, to Gil’s horror, dark red started seeping through his shirt, out from under his suit jacket. “You’re bleeding! _Actively_.”

Murdock’s eyes flared wide with panic, like even in his intoxicated state he realized that this amount of blood was too suspicious for his lawyer alias. “ _Not_ blood,” he argued with surprising vehemence. “S’jus’…s’jus’…” He trailed off with an unintelligible mumble.

“Jelly,” Malcolm supplied, and buried a giggle under his hand. Composing himself, he dropped his hand away and said, very seriously, “Strawberry jelly.”

Murdock looked suddenly delighted. “No, raspberry?”

Malcolm seemed to think about it. “Raspberry,” he agreed.

Gil ignored them both, reaching instead for Murdock’s wound, needing to get his shirt out of the way so he could inspect the injury, but Murdock flinched away again. Impressive reflexes for a blind man, assuming he really was blind. “I need to look at this,” Gil told him firmly.

Murdock just shook his head and mumbled some more, like that would somehow solve the whole problem.

“He’ll be fine,” Malcolm whispered loudly from across the room. “He’s had worse.”

Murdock groaned. “Malcolm, _shhh_ , no. Shuddup.”

“And _that’s_ how our friendship started,” Malcolm said happily.

Whatever Malcolm thought, Gil couldn’t drag a civilian around with an open wound. Even if the civilian was technically a criminal. He caught Murdock’s wrist in a firm grip and reached again for the wound.

Murdock gritted his teeth and—and just _flipped forward_ , jerking out of Gil’s hold like he’d done it a thousand times. Except that he fumbled the landing and ended up on his knees, a startled look on his face. He let out a very small, “Ow.”

Gil really wanted to ask why he thought flipping around was less conspicuous than letting Gil look at his injury, but this was very clearly not the time. He sighed again, more loudly this time, and held up his hands. “Fine, I won’t touch your stab wound or bullet wound or whatever that is. Just follow me, all right?”

Malcolm glanced at Murdock, and Murdock sort of…tilted his head in Malcolm’s direction. Malcolm nodded encouragingly. Murdock still looked distinctly unhappy, but he pushed himself (slowly, gingerly) to his feet and gave an annoyed shrug.

“Finally,” Gil muttered.

Malcolm bounced on his toes. “Field trip!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiii I know that I'm super behind on replying to comments, I promise I'll get to them, because they are truly Delightful! <3


	28. Babysitting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! *hugs you all*
> 
> I'm so sorry about the long wait for this chapter. I got kinda obsessed with another fic, as those of you subscribed to me have undoubtedly noticed. Plus, there were literally so many directions to take this chapter, and I had to rewrite a few parts to try to include all the things I wanted. That being said, if anyone else has other ideas for what could happen when Gil watches over high!Malcolm and high!Matt, please feel free to write your your own. I'll certainly read it. ;)
> 
> Fair warning: this is all over the place, tonally. Blame it on our heroes who just cannot keep it together.

Gil

This was obviously going to be a disaster. Good news was, he was used to disasters where Malcolm was involved. With any luck, Murdock wouldn’t complicate things too much.

Ha. Who was he kidding? Murdock ran around at night in a Halloween costume, picking fights with criminals. So this was obviously going to be even _more_ of a disaster than usual.

“You two,” he barked, looking back and forth between Malcolm and Murdock. “Follow me. We’re going to the hospital.”

Murdock reacted exactly like Gil just announced they were going chop all his fingers off. “No! No hospitals.”

“Don’t need hospitals,” Malcolm agreed cheerily. “We’ve got Cl—”

“ _Don’t_ say her name,” Murdock hissed.

Gil frowned. “Murdock. You’re hurt. I’m taking you to the hospital.” Vigilante he may be, but he was also a civilian. More importantly, he was Malcolm’s friend. Gil was not letting him bleed out on his watch.

“Gil, Gil, Gil.” Malcolm’s voice was somehow urgent and patronizing at the same time as he took a few staggering steps closer. “Gil, my friend _can’t_ go to the hospital. There’ll be _questions_.”

“What?”

Malcolm lowered his voice. “Y’know. About the scars.”

“Malcolm,” Murdock groaned. “Stop _talking_.”

But the kid was right, Gil realized. Doing what Murdock did, he was bound to end up with evidence of violence. Violence that didn’t match his blind lawyer persona. Dropping Murdock off at the hospital was basically the same as dumping him at the precinct in handcuffs. Gil pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Okay, fine. We’ll go to your place. Sound good?”

“Thank you,” Malcolm said, voice and expression and everything bursting with painful sincerity.

Huh. Dani wasn’t kidding about how much Malcolm cared about Murdock.

Whatever. Murdock was still bleeding, so they couldn’t just stand here all night. “Come with me,” he directed, heading towards his car. He kept an eye on Murdock, though, wondering what the man would do without his cane since he seemed to be struggling to remember that he was supposed to be blind.

Murdock looked wary, but Malcolm bounced after Gil like a puppy invited to go for a walk. At least, until he glanced over his shoulder and saw Dani emerge from the room, holding Jared’s still-unconscious form upright. Malcolm kind of swayed on his feet for a second, then bounced determinedly back in her direction. “Dani! Dani, d’you need help?”

Lunging, Gil caught him by the back of his shirt. “I think she can handle it, Bright.”

“I know she can,” Malcolm retorted, not bothering to keep his voice low. “She’s _very_ competent.”

Dani groaned loudly, but…was she…it was _maybe_ possible she was…blushing?

Murdock took a few steps closer to Malcolm, not quite in a straight line although Gil wasn’t sure if that was from drugs or his blind act. The man’s head remained tilted in Dani’s direction, though, which was a bit weird. “Dani,” he murmured, wetting his lips as if tasting the name. “You’re Dani.”

Malcolm stiffened. “Matt, shh.”

Gil really wanted to hurry these two along before they caused more trouble, but at the same time, this looked like it could get interesting.

Murdock completely ignored Malcolm’s shushing noises. “Why’d you keep the lemon lime?” he inquired.

Dani’s eyes narrowed at him. “Excuse me?”

“Why?” Murdock demanded.

“ _Shh_ ,” Malcolm whispered, nudging Murdock hard. “No, shh, not important, very not important.”

Gil took pity on him. “Gentlemen,” he prompted.

Murdock scowled like he was being deprived of an important truth, but didn’t continue his interrogation. Dani looked relieved and confused at the same time as she dragged Jared to her car.

But Malcolm and Murdock just stood there blankly. Well, Murdock looked blank; Malcolm was watching Dani leave with a painfully wistful expression. Gil sighed. “Come on,” he reminded them, heading towards his own vehicle and hoping they’d follow. What he’d do if they didn’t, he wasn’t sure.

Fortunately, Malcolm trailed after him, and, after hesitating for just a moment, Murdock followed after Malcolm. Well, until Malcolm suddenly remembered something and stopped as soon as they were outside the building. “The rental,” he said plaintively.

“Leave it,” Gil ordered.

“But—”

Gil rolled his eyes. “Kid, you can’t drive anything right now. It would be illegal.”

Malcolm frowned at that, and tugged on Murdock’s arm. The two engaged in a hushed conference. Apparently their conclusion agreed with Gil, because Malcolm gave a single, mournful nod and allowed himself to be led to Gil’s car.

The two of them finally climbed into the back while Gil took the driver’s seat, making him feel strangely like a chauffeur. Or a babysitter. Still, Gil passed Murdock’s glasses back, and he instantly slipped them on, shielding his eyes from view.

“Thanks,” he said softly.

Gil was a bit taken aback. The guy was Daredevil, and a defense attorney, and clearly pissed that Gil was involved at all. But his thanks seemed genuine. “You’re welcome,” Gil said, a bit stiffly. Just, this whole situation was so far beyond Gil’s experience. On second thought, he passed Murdock one of the spare napkins he kept stuffed in the center console. “For your nose,” he explained when Murdock didn’t seem to know what to do with it. No one was dripping blood in his car.

“Oh.” Murdock honestly looked like he’d forgotten his nose was bleeding. His following, “Thanks,” was muffled by the napkin.

Gil shook his head at himself. “Buckle up, you two.”

He heard two obedient little _clicks_ , and then he put the car in drive. He knew the streets of his city well, well enough to know the best way to get to Malcolm’s apartment while avoiding the spots where he was likely to find cops. His status with the NYPD wouldn’t be enough to save them if a cop saw the state Malcolm and Murdock were in.

As if he’d read Gil’s mind, Malcolm started mumbling in the backseat.

No. Not just mumbling.

Mumbling _melodically_.

Oh, no.

Murdock sat up straighter, a hesitant smile on his face.

Oh, no.

Malcolm burst into song: “Lean on me, when you’re not stro-ong! And I’ll be your friend, I’ll help you—” Pause for dramatic effect, and, “— _caaaaaaaaaarry on!_ ”

Gil stifled a sigh. “Bright.”

“For!” Malcolm sang. “It won’t be lo-ong…” He stopped for breath.

Murdock jumped in, voice a little quieter but also a little more on-key. “Til I’m gonna need,” he sang softly, “somebody to—”

Malcolm had regained his breath and completely drowned out Murdock’s voice as he belted out: “— _leeeeeeeeeeeeean on!_ ”

Gil rolled his eyes so hard he thought they might fall out. “Bright, please stop singing.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Malcolm protested, and let out a giggle. “I’m _high_.”

“We’re _both_ high,” Murdock corrected. “Very high,” he added seriously, and instantly covered his face with his hands, muttering something about the weather. Fog, or something.

Honestly, Gil was way beyond trying to follow their logic. They stopped singing, though, and that was good enough for him.

Five minutes later: “Gil?” Malcolm asked.

“Yeah, kid?”

“I’m hungry.”

Gil was forcefully reminded of driving Malcolm home from school once when Jessica was sick. They’d stopped at McDonald’s because Malcolm was hungry and Gil wasn’t rich and also because Gil privately thought it was good for kids, even rich kids, to have McDonald’s sometimes. No one else’s fries were half as good.

Still.

“Do you have food at home?” Gil asked.

Malcolm thought about it. And thought about it. And thought about it. Like he was mentally inspecting all his cabinets and his fridge. Finally, he came up with: “No.”

Gil sighed, but he moved over into the right lane. There was a McDonald’s coming up.

Five minutes later, the car was full of the warm smell of burgers and fries. Gil passed the bag back, absently curious about how they’d split the food. To his surprise, he noticed in the rearview mirror that Murdock just shook his head when Malcolm offered him half of the bounty. Malcolm shrugged, placed the burger carefully on Murdock’s knee, and turned his attention to his own food. He barely nibbled on it before apparently remembering his own aversion to food, and he set his still-mostly-wrapped burger aside.

Gil wished he’d saved the ten dollars and just put up with Malcolm whining. Now the whole car smelled like food, and Gil’s own stomach rumbled, but he couldn’t help feeling like the more time they spent out in public the greater the risk that something would go horribly wrong, so he focused on just driving to Malcolm’s apartment as fast as he legally could.

All right, so maybe his speed was slightly illegal. But he didn’t see any cops around.

“You all right?” Malcolm whispered suddenly.

Gil glanced in the rearview mirror again to see the kid’s concerned face turned towards Murdock, who was kind of hunched over in his seat, looking slightly nauseated.

“Fine,” he mumbled.

Gil frowned.

Five minutes later: “You sure?” Malcolm asked.

Gil glanced back yet again, this time to see Murdock leaning over in his seat so that all Gil could see was the slope of his back. Murdock didn’t answer.

“Is it your senses?” Malcolm asked sympathetically, and Murdock let out a muffled groan in response. It all meant nothing to Gil, but Gil silently buzzed Murdock’s window down in case the guy needed some air and drove a little faster. No one was throwing up in his car.

It was a relief to finally pull up in front of Malcolm’s apartment complex. They all got out—Malcolm tripped on the curve, but didn’t actually faceplant, and brushed the whole thing off with a little laugh. Murdock’s fancy suit was shiny with blood under the streetlight and his skin was about three shades paler than it was when they got in the car.

Gil got to the front door. “Keep moving, gentlemen. Bright, don’t let anyone see the blood.”

“Yessir,” Malcolm chirped, falling into step next to Murdock and kind of nudging him so that, when they all filed into the lobby, he was blocking the view of Murdock’s injury from the front desk. Gil couldn’t help noticing the way Murdock’s head kept twitching around, like he was…listening to something and couldn’t block it out. Not unlike the way Malcolm’s eyes kept darting around, like he was looking for something that wasn’t there.

They all shuffled into the next room, a wide, open space with a staircase straight ahead and elevators off to the side. Gil took one glance at the staircase, imagined the hassle of dragging both of these hooligans up all those steps, remembered how pale Murdock already was from blood loss, and hit the button for the elevator instead. As soon as the doors opened, he stuffed Malcolm and Murdock inside.

Which was a mistake. As it turned out.

Murdock leaned heavily against the back wall, blood oozing from between his fingertips. But the second the doors started to close, just beginning to shut out the light outside, Malcolm stiffened. Then, without any warning, he lunged forward, shoving one hand between the doors. The sensors noticed before the doors could crush his hand, and the doors slid open again. Malcolm tumbled out.

“Kid!” Gil hurried after him, grabbing the back of his jacket. “What the hell was that?”

Malcolm was…Malcolm was _shivering_ , wide blue eyes full of fear as they locked onto Gil. “Not the box, Gil,” he whispered. “Please, not the box.”

Oh. Oh, shit. Gil glanced over his shoulder and wondered how messed up the kid really was that the elevator in his own apartment was giving him flashbacks.

Focusing all his attention on his kid, Gil clapped his hands on either side of Malcolm’s neck and pressed their foreheads together. “Malcolm, look at me. _Look_ at me. You see me?”

Malcolm nodded, breathless. “I see you.”

“There’s no box. It’s just me. It’s just me, see?”

Malcolm nodded again, still shivering. “Sorry, s-sorry…”

“Don’t apologize. You’re fine.” Gil pressed harder of Malcolm’s wild pulse, willing it to slow. “Look, your friend’s hurt. The elevator’s the best way to get him upstairs without attracting the kind of attention we don’t need. Think you’ll be okay with that?”

Malcolm gulped. “Um, y-yeah,” he stammered.

“He’s lying,” said a low voice from less than a foot behind Gil.

Gil spun around, keeping one hand on Malcolm, to see Murdock standing eerily close, eyebrows pinched together over his glasses. He was pressing one hand to his bloody side.

Gil gaped at him. “What?”

“He’s lying.” Murdock took a step even closer, frowning at Malcolm. “If you put him in that elevator, I’m guessing he’ll have a panic attack in about thirty seconds.”

What made the guy so sure, Gil had no idea, but before he could press him on it, Malcolm made a noise, small and choked-off. When Gil’s head snapped back around he saw tears brimming in Malcolm’s eyes, tears he was fighting hard to keep back. “No, no, I’ll—I’ll be okay, Gil, really, it’s not—” He took a shallow, shuddering breath. “It’s not real. I know it’s not real.”

“Kid…” Gil said helplessly. He didn’t know what to do here. The kid’s nightmares were so severe that he literally slept in _handcuffs_ , so there was no way Gil could shove him in an elevator that would trigger a flashback. But Murdock was literally dripping blood on the floor, meaning that even if they somehow made it all the way up to Malcolm’s apartment without getting noticed, someone would find the blood. Maybe call the police. And the trail of blood would take them right to Malcolm’s door.

The only solution Gil could think of was to split them up. Drag Murdock into the elevator and try to stop him from bleeding everywhere while he sent Malcolm up the stairs alone. But Gil could only imagine what Malcolm could get up to left unsupervised. If something else triggered him, he could have a panic attack or throw himself back down the stairs trying to escape some imaginary ghost. The image of Malcolm’s broken body lying in a heap at the foot of the stairs flashed across Gil’s mind, and that was it.

“Stairs,” he decided. He could double back afterwards, clean up the blood before anybody saw. Maybe.

Murdock gave a small, approving nod with his lips pressed so hard together that they’d turned white. He turned towards the stairs.

But Malcolm reached out, grabbed Murdock’s arm. “Gil, _no_. I can—I can handle it, it’s not real, I’m _fine_.”

Gil opened his mouth, but Murdock beat him to it: “You’re not fine.”

Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. “ _You’re_ not fine.”

“ _You’re_ not fine,” Murdock shot back.

“ _You’re_ not—”

“Enough!” Gil planted a hand on each of their shoulders. He’d expected a shitshow, but _this?_ “We’re taking the stairs, Malcolm, and that’s—”

Murdock’s head snapped around. “Someone’s coming,” he whispered fiercely.

Gil stared at him. “What?”

“Someone’s coming. Oh, no, she’s young. College, maybe. Barely.”

“Wait, what?”

Malcolm bit his lip. “She’s gonna panic.”

Murdock visibly bit the inside of his cheek, but then he nodded shortly. “Elevator.”

“Elevator,” Malcolm agreed.

Gil was thoroughly lost. “What?” 

Apparently, the decision had been made without him. Murdock was already stumbling towards the elevator, clinging to Malcolm’s arm. Neither were exactly moving in a straight line, but the kid was a bit more stable due to, well, the fact that he wasn’t currently bleeding out. Unless Gil was mistaken, though, both their hands were shaking.

This was not going to end well, but it seemed that there was nothing Gil could do but damage control.

Murdock reached for the button to open the elevator doors, and missed, fingers brushing over bare wall instead. Gil frowned, trying to figure out how the guy decided when to fake being blind or not. Malcolm hit the button instead.

The doors slid open. Murdock stumbled in and immediately leaned against the nearest wall. Malcolm visibly took a deep breath before following.

Gil stepped in last, heart pounding in anticipation of this new disaster.

Malcolm was muttering something under his breath, over and over.

The doors slid closed.

Gil realized belatedly what Malcolm was saying: “ _I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine_ —”

The elevator started moving, and Malcolm’s face immediately washed pale. He pressed a hand against a wall.

“Kid.” Gil moved in close again, hands on Malcolm’s shoulders. “You’re okay. Deep breaths.”

“Focus on what you can feel.” That was Murdock’s voice, drifting dreamily over from where he was slumped against the wall. “Your feet against your shoes. Your clothes. The air in your lungs.”

Malcolm nodded desperately. “I know, I know, I’m fine, I’m—” He broke off, flinching, eyes shut tight in fear. He was barely breathing.

“ _Bright_.” Gil cupped Malcolm’s face. “Listen to me. Listen to my voice. It’s not real. It’s just the drugs, remember? It’s not real.”

Malcolm’s eyes were still sealed shut, but Gil felt a tear spill out from his lashes as Malcolm trembled under his touch. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible. “Let me out.”

The elevator was still moving. Felt like it’d been moving for an hour already. “We’re almost there, kid,” Gil soothed. “We’re almost—”

Malcolm wasn’t listening. His hand stretched out, fingers flexing through the air like he was grabbing onto vertical bars. (Gil’s stomach flipped. What, did he think he was in a cage?) “I’m supposed to walk out of here,” he said, sounding like he was fighting to keep himself under control.

“You’re gonna walk out of here,” Gil promised. “We’re almost—”

“ _I’m sorry!_ ” Malcolm screamed, so loud and so sudden that Murdock flinched violently in his corner of the elevator.

Shit—that was gonna call all the attention. Gil wrapped his arms around Malcolm, holding him against his chest. “Shh, shh, you’re okay, it’s just—”

“Please,” Malcolm whimpered, voice cracked. “Please, please, I’m so sorry—”

“Shh.” Gil didn’t know what to do, so he just said the things he most wished Malcolm would believe. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t, Malcolm, I swear.”

Malcolm didn’t respond, just buried his face in Gil’s shirt.

Finally, finally, the elevator slowed to a stop. The door opened with an anticlimactic _ding_. Brighter light from the hallway spilled in; Gil lifted his eyes to see Murdock hunched over in the corner and had to catch his breath at the sadness in the lawyer’s expression.

Huh. Dani wasn’t kidding about how much Murdock cared about Malcolm.

Gil rubbed Malcolm’s back. “We made it, kid. Wanna step outside?”

Malcolm nodded mutely, peeling himself away from Gil. He kept his hands out, though. For balance, Gil thought at first, and then he noticed Malcolm brush his fingers against either side of the elevator doorway like he wasn’t totally sure where he was in space. Murdock followed, limping a little in his efforts to move his injured side as little as possible.

They miraculously avoided meeting anyone on the way to Malcolm’s door. Or maybe not so miraculous, given how Murdock somehow knew about someone coming downstairs. Or was that just the drugs getting to him, making him imagine things?

Gil needed to start writing down his list of questions.

Malcolm rested his forehead against his front door while he fished his keys from his pocket. His hands—both of them—were still shaky, but he got the door unlocked. Gil couldn’t help whispering a prayer of thankfulness as they all made it inside and Gil got the door shut firmly behind them.

Not that he could _relax_ now. But at least he didn’t have to worry about someone calling the police on them anymore. “You two, go sit on the couch. Bright, where’s your first aid kit?”

“Kitchen,” Murdock answered, bizarrely. “I got it.” He walked confidently towards the kitchen, only to crash straight into Malcolm’s counter with a dull _thud_. He jerked backwards, letting out a tiny, “Ow.”

Gritting his teeth, Gil jogged over to him and found himself instinctively reaching to put his hand on the back of Murdock’s neck, just like he did with Malcolm. But Murdock ducked smoothly out of the way without even turning his head.

Gil blinked. Forget whether the guy was blind, how did he do _that?_ Eyes in the back of his head?

Adding yet another question to his mental list, Gil cleared his throat. “Couch. I’ll get the kit.”

Murdock hesitated, looking like he was having a very intense mental battle. Finally, he turned on his heel and retreated toward the couch where Bright was already curled up with knees pulled up to his chest and his chin on his knees, blinking up at Gil and looking very small.

Seeing the kid like that always brought Gil straight back to Malcolm’s young, scared face that night when Malcolm saved his life from his own father. Shaking his head to clear it, Gil found the first aid kit—not heavy-duty, but not too shabby either, given Malcolm’s habit of throwing himself headfirst into danger—and joined the other two at the couch.

“All right, Murdock,” Gil began.

“Matt,” Malcolm corrected.

Gil ignored this. He was not on a first-name basis with a vigilante of all things. “Let me look at your injury.”

Murdock shuffled on the couch as if trying to get more comfortable. “No,” he mumbled.

Gil’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “No?”

“M’not hurt.”

Gil sighed. “You’re hurt. You’re also high.”

 _That_ got a reaction. Murdock suddenly drew himself up, wincing even as he pointed dramatically at Gil. “You can’t prove that!”

Malcolm snorted.

Normally, defense attorneys just pissed Gil off. This particular defense attorney, however, was really too pathetic at the moment to be annoying. “You both were talking about being high in the car not ten minutes ago,” he reminded him.

Murdock took several long minutes to think about that. “Miranda,” he slurred finally. “You have to read it first.”

Gil rolled his eyes. “Move your shirt.”

“No,” Murdock said stubbornly.

Gil’s patience was rapidly fraying. “I said, move your shirt,” he said, using that voice he always used to (try to) get Malcolm to listen when Malcolm was a kid.

To his utter shock, it worked. Murdock unbuttoned his shirt, peeling it back to reveal his wound and a patchwork of other scars, looking just as surprised as Gil was that he was complying.

“Finally,” Gil muttered under his breath. Murdock shot him a dirty look, which Gil ignored. The guy had a mess of ripped stitches on his side. Shit, was that a _bullet_ wound? Gil stared at it for a second, willing this guy’s life to make sense. It didn’t. Whatever. After carefully removing the torn stitches, Gil cleaned the wound and stitched it up again. He did not offer Murdock anything for the pain, not wanting to mix drugs with whatever he’d ingested, but Murdock just tensed up and closed his eyes and didn’t make a sound.

“There,” Gil said when he was finished, smoothing a fresh bandage over the new stitches. “Good as new.” Gathering up the supplies, he headed back into the kitchen to put everything away. “Now, I want you two—” Gil turned around again and stopped.

They were slumped over on the couch together. Malcolm was still curled in a ball, while Murdock had tucked his legs up onto the couch, resting his head on Malcolm’s shoulder. Fast asleep.


	29. Consociation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about that new Prodigal Son season, though??? (Sadly, I have to ask that you don't discuss in the comments as not everyone is caught up yet, but please come chatter with me about it on tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ceterisparibus116.)

Malcolm

He was waking up, but he didn’t want to. Wherever he was, it was soft and warm, and it felt…safe. Experience told him it had to be a trap somehow. All the more reason to delay the inevitable, right?

His stomach growled. He tried to dismiss it; he wasn’t really hungry, and in fact he felt kinda sick, but it was impossible to ignore the aroma of eggs frying in the kitchen—

His eyes snapped open.

Jared. Gil. _Matt_.

Malcolm was on his couch, body twisted and slumped over in a way he’d _definitely_ feel once he got up and started moving around. Matt was sprawled next to him, basically using one of Malcolm’s thighs for a pillow. Someone had draped a blanket over them.

Malcolm shifted, trying to figure out how to get up, but Matt was deadweight.

He must’ve caught Gil’s attention, though, because suddenly Gil was coming out from the kitchen. The lieutenant stopped in front of the couch, crouching down to be at eye-level with Malcolm. He was still in yesterday’s undercover clothes, and there were tired bags under his eyes.

Malcolm guiltily wondered how many cumulative hours of sleep he’d cost Gil over the years.

“How you feeling, kid?” Gil asked. His voice was so, so soft. Softer than the blanket.

“Weird,” Malcolm answered honestly. “Well, _not_ weird, actually, given that I ingested some kind of drug or possibly a combination of drugs last night. It would be weird if I didn’t feel weird. So feeling weird is actually not weird, right?”

Gil’s mouth quirked in a blink-or-you’ll-miss-it flash of amusement. “At least you sound like yourself.”

“What, um…” Malcolm tried moving again, at least to get out from under the blanket, but Matt made a sleepy noise of protest, so Malcolm held still. “What happened?”

“No, I’ll be asking the questions this morning.” Gil’s voice was still soft, but his eyes were scarily no-nonsense. “When did this start?” He gestured between Malcolm and Matt.

“Why does that sound like an innuendo,” Malcolm muttered.

Gil raised his eyebrows.

Malcolm belatedly remembered that he and Matt were practically cuddling on the couch.

Okay. Maybe literally cuddling.

He tried to fight a blush, tried to focus. “The DA had the wrong suspect, Gil. And Matt was pretty much the only person bothering to fight for her.”

“So you just went rogue?”

“Okay, first of all, you say that like it’s unprecedented—”

Gil’s eyes flashed. “To this extent, yes!”

“What else was I supposed to do? She needed help, but I couldn’t ask _you_. I mean, you were _exceedingly_ clear that you wanted me nowhere near the case.”

Gil sighed. “Yeah, all right. I guess that’s on me. But you still could’ve talked to me about it. It’s just that I can’t fight every battle. Policework involves policy and procedures and tradeoffs—”

“Even when that gets in the way of justice?”

Now Gil averted his eyes. “It’s not a perfect system.”

“I know,” Malcolm said steadily. “That’s why I started working with him.”

Gil glanced up, glanced at Matt. “He’s dangerous.”

“So am I,” Malcolm shot back. “And I can take care of myself.”

“Do you even know what drugs you took?”

Malcolm resisted the temptation to squirm. “Not… _exactly_ …”

“Right.” Gil’s words were suddenly crisp and cold and cutting, and Malcolm knew, he _knew_ it was just because Gil was scared, but that didn’t make it feel any better. “So you cornered a murderer, surrounded by violent gang members, and ingested unidentified drugs, and got locked in a room, and you expect me to believe you can take care of yourself?”

“Well—but—that—” Malcolm shook his head, both to clear it and because he had to express his agitation _somehow_. “That doesn’t have anything to do with him!” He would’ve done all that on his own if he thought it would help, and Gil of all people had to know that.

Which was maybe why Gil didn’t even argue the point, switching to a new argument instead. “What if word gets out that you’re working with a vigilante?” he demanded. “I have superiors too, remember? I’m not sure I’d be able to keep you on the team if people found out about…” He gestured again. “This.”

Malcolm’s stomach dropped. He’d been playing like he could have it both ways, like he could keep both Matt and his team. But Gil was right: he could only do that as long as Matt was a secret.

“It’s just for this one case, Gil,” Malcolm said, voice small.

Gil’s eyes were kind, but disappointed in a way that dug deep at Malcolm’s chest. “I don’t buy that. And I don’t think you do, either.”

Malcolm tried not to squirm or otherwise give away how true that was. Now that he’d gotten a taste of this, of running around with someone who was just as willing as he was to jump over red tape if that was what it took to actually help people?

There’d be no going back.

“Look, just…” Rubbing at the back of his neck, Gil seemed to search Malcolm’s face. “Is it really worth it?”

Malcolm chewed on the inside of his cheek.

“Is it?”

Yes. He couldn’t believe he was even thinking this, but yes, it was. Think of all the people he could help, people the system would totally ignore. Hell, the system was _designed_ to ignore some people.

Malcolm didn’t want to lie, not to Gil, so he nodded just once.

Even with all his years of profiling, and all his years of just knowing Gil, he still couldn’t interpret the look on Gil’s face. But all the lieutenant said was, “Why?”

“We’re helping people, Gil, in a way we can’t if—”

“It’s not just about that, kid.” Gil tilted his head slightly to the side, lips pressed grimly together like he already knew the answer he was looking for. “Is it?”

Wasn’t it? What was Gil getting at? Malcolm tried to turn his profiler’s eye on himself, trying to see what Gil saw.

And, well. When he found it, he wished he hadn’t. He swallowed hard. “Um, it’s just…” His eyes darted around the room, needing to look at something other than Gil’s face. “The team is my family, Gil. I mean, not really, but…I need them. And it’s not just about the cases. I mean, yeah, that’s a big part of it, I’m not saying I don’t need that, you _know_ what I’m like when I don’t have a case—”

“Kid,” Gil interrupted gently.

“Sorry.” Malcolm refocused. “You, Dani, JT, Edrisa…you’re my family. But it’s also like…” He hesitated. He didn’t want to say this. Why did he have to say this?

Because Gil was still looking at him like that.

Malcolm closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see it. “It’s like they’re still waiting for me to mess up. To prove I’m my father’s son. Which means…which means I’m constantly trying to prove them wrong.”

What was it Matt said? _You can’t keep defining yourself only by what you’re not._

The room was quiet enough for him to hear Gil’s small inhale.

“I mean, I get it,” Malcolm said quickly. “Dani has, you know…her thing with trust. And JT just…doesn’t know me all that well yet? I get it. But do you know how _hard I’m trying_ to get out from under his shadow? And it’s—it’s just—” His throat tightened up. “It’s nice being around someone who…I don’t have to convince.”

Gil didn’t say anything.

“And you’re not like that,” Malcolm added in a hurry. “You know me, Gil, you really do. And Edrisa just likes that I know weird facts about poison and stuff, so that’s cool, but…” He gave a helpless shrug.

Gil took a deep breath. “You shouldn’t have to choose between solving cases legally and feeling like your partners trust you.”

“I’m a serial killer’s son,” Malcolm said quietly. “ _Should_ doesn’t really apply to me.”

“Look, kid…” Gil lowered his voice. “Are you sure you can trust him?”

Malcolm glanced at Matt, whose chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. “One hundred percent.”

“And that’s what worries me.”

“Wait, what?” Malcolm looked back at Gil.

Gil, whose expression darkened. “I get that you want someone who won’t look at you and think of your father. I get that. But you have to understand, it’ll take people time. All of New York lived in fear before the Surgeon was caught, and then he turned out to be just like anyone else, and that made people even _more_ terrified. And then you think of the fact that Dani and JT, they know how hard it is to pull off the kind of murders the Surgeon committed for so many years. They know what it takes. It has nothing to do with you, but you gotta understand, it’s not something they can just stop thinking about.”

“I know, but—”

“But now you’ve got this guy.” Gil jerked his chin at Matt. “A vigilante. Someone who takes the law into his own hands. Someone who’s more than willing to torture people to get what he wants.” He hesitated, then seemed to make up his mind. “I’m just saying, I’m not sure him being willing to overlook your father is a good sign.”

Malcolm stiffened.

“You deserve to be accepted for who you are,” Gil added quickly. “But…the fact that _he_ seems to do that isn’t necessarily evidence that he’s a good person. You see that, don’t you?”

“I’m not saying that,” Malcolm protested. “I mean, Matt _is_ a good person, but that’s totally separate from whether or not he—”

“How do you _know_ he’s a good person?” Gil burst out, standing up.

Malcolm gaped at him. “My profile—”

“How do you know your profile is right?”

“Gil!” Malcolm stared at him in disbelief and indignation and a little bit (a lot) of hurt. “This is what I _do_ , this is why _you_ brought me on the team. I’m the best profiler in New York—”

“Not when you’re compromised!”

Malcolm snapped his mouth shut, stung.

Gil’s eyes were guilty and resolute at the same time. “You’ve found someone who knows about the Surgeon but says it doesn’t matter, and, kid, I swear that’s all I want for you, but how do you know you’re not just seeing what you want to see?”

“I—I—” Malcolm stammered, heart thundering in his ears.

Gil lowered his voice again, speaking fast and urgent. “Let’s break this down. You’ve got Dani and JT, and you already said it seems like they’re still waiting for something to go wrong. Then there’s Jessica and Ainsley, and I know they love you, and they’re doing their best, but the Surgeon impacted all of you, and there’s no getting around it. And then there’s Eve—”

Something hot lashed through Malcolm’s insides. “Don’t.” He’d told Gil about Eve (eventually, painfully), about how everything they had together was at least partly just her cover for getting close to the Surgeon’s son, but he never would’ve thought Gil would _throw it in his face_ like this.

Gil averted his eyes again, visibly gritting his teeth. At himself, probably, although it was hard not to feel like his frustration was all aimed at Malcolm. “Sorry, kid. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to…I just…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

Malcolm spent a few seconds breathing deeply, getting himself back under control. He didn’t want to fight with Gil. And he knew Gil enough to know the lieutenant didn’t want to fight with him either. It was just that they didn’t usually disagree on anything this important. Like, sure, Gil tended to disagree pretty vehemently with Malcolm’s general method of throwing himself headfirst into danger, but that _usually_ wasn’t planned. It was impulsive. And Malcolm could kinda-sorta agree that it was a bad idea, technically, even if it worked out in the end.

This, though? This was a conscious choice, one Malcolm kept making again and again. And Malcolm didn’t think it was a bad idea at all.

“I’m sorry,” Gil said again, arms folded uncomfortably in front of himself. “I _want_ to be happy for you, kid. I want to support this. But I care about you too much to not worry.”

“So worry,” Malcolm muttered, picking at the blanket. “But don’t ask me to cut him off. Look, Gil…” Malcolm hesitated. “He didn’t even really know me when I figured out his identity. If he were such a terrible person, he could’ve shut my mouth for good. That would’ve been the smart thing. Instead, he started working with me. He’s saved my life. We’ve saved _each other’s_ lives. We’re…we’re actually…” He hesitated again, feeling stupid. “Friends?”

“Friends,” Gil repeated. “You don’t sound so certain.”

Malcolm let out an embarrassed chuckle. “Yeah, but that’s not his fault. I’m the one who’s out of practice with it.”

“Friends,” Gil said again. “You’re sure?”

Malcolm held his gaze. “One hundred percent.”

Gil’s forehead creased. “Do you at least have a plan? For when someone finds out about this?” He waved his hand. “You need cases to solve, but you won’t be able to if you get caught up in an internal investigation. And…” He paused. “What about _him?_ When this comes out, no one will believe you don’t know who he is.”

Malcolm knew what he meant. If Malcolm kept this up, he could find himself under investigation. Or worse. And even though Gil probably wasn’t too worried about how that might fall back on Matt, Malcolm knew he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he got Matt arrested.

He shrugged with more confidence than he felt. “I’ll figure something out.”

“Shit, kid.” Gil pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re making it really hard to go along with this.”

Wait, what? Malcolm’s eyes widened. “You _are_ going along with this?”

“Seems like I have to, doesn’t it?”

What did _that_ mean? “If this is just so you can spy on him, figure out if he’s actually psychopathic—”

But Gil shook his head. “You trust him. I won’t be putting blinders on, but if you’re convinced he’s a good guy…I guess I’ll take a leap of faith.”

Gil was obviously doing this for Malcolm’s sake, not Matt’s, but still. Malcolm’s chest warmed. “He is, Gil. He really is.”

It was at that exact moment that he realized Matt was staying unusually still. He frowned down at the vigilante, whose breathing was set at a perfect rhythm. Too perfect.

Aw, man. Malcolm felt his face heat up. “How much of that were you listening to?”

Matt kept his eyes closed, apparently determined to still pretend to be asleep.

“Matt.”

No response.

Raising his eyebrows, Gil leaned over the couch. “ _Daredevil_.”

Matt’s whole body instantly stiffened up, frozen like prey in front of a predator. His eyes slowly cracked open, and Malcolm he could tell the exact moment Matt started replaying whatever he could remember from last night, because panic flashed across his face.

“Morning,” Gil drawled.

Matt slowly, slowly sat up, eyes darting this way and that like he was scanning the room. He didn’t say anything.

“Um.” Malcolm cleared his throat. “Matt, meet Gil. Gil, Matt. I mean, I guess you technically met last night, but I don’t really remember it, so I assume you don’t really remember it either…” He trailed off into an awkward silence.

Matt finally spoke, voice raspy as he aimed his words at Gil: “I’ve heard of you.”

“All good things,” Malcolm assured Gil. The best things, actually. He turned back to Matt, who was pale and kind of looked like he was having some kind of out-of-body experience, and lowered his voice. “He really is a good guy,” Malcolm said earnestly. “Promise.”

Matt did not look reassured. He…actually, he kinda looked like he _wanted_ to be reassured, which was interesting. But, no, not in fact reassured at all.

“Easy,” Gil said, like he was talking to a scared horse about to bolt. On second glance, Malcolm noticed Matt’s hand gripping the blanket like he was two seconds from making a break for it and the blanket was the only thing holding him back. “You’re Murdock, right?” Gil went on, voice suddenly conversational. “The lawyer.”

Matt’s eyes flitted suspiciously around Gil’s face. “How…how did you find us?” His voice was tight with anxiety. “ _Why_ did you find us?”

“Dani,” Gil said. “Detective Powell. She’s on Malcolm’s team. She says you’ve met.”

Matt neither confirmed nor denied.

“She was worried about you two getting in over your heads,” Gil added.

Of course she was. Malcolm wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Matt, however, lifted his chin defiantly, apparently deciding to go on the offensive. “Well, it may have escaped your notice, but we actually found Jared Worthington, something _your_ team has so far failed to accomplish.”

“And you didn’t exactly do anything to contain him,” Gil fired back, all traces of softness gone, like he’d just been _waiting_ for an excuse to unleash his frustration on someone other than Malcolm. “He would’ve gotten away _again_ if Dani and I hadn’t been tailing you.”

“You don’t know that,” Matt snapped.

Gil threw up his hands in disbelief. “You got yourselves locked in a room with a murderer, in the middle of a gang’s headquarters, too high to think straight!”

Matt apparently couldn’t think of an argument to that. Since Gil was, well…right.

Malcolm scowled. “We had a plan.”

“Oh, yeah.” Gil’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “It was a great plan except for the entire sections about back up and self-preservation missing. Just tell me, because I’m desperate to know: what was your actual plan for getting yourselves out of there?”

Malcolm glanced at Matt, whose blind glare was burning a hole through the floor. He kinda thought the defense attorney should really be, you know, _defending_ them right now, but apparently Matt figured anything they said could and would be used against them.

“Okay. Okay.” Gil stood up and started pacing back and forth in front of the couch, hands on his hips. “Forget the…vigilante business. We need to talk about recklessness.”

A muscle flashed in Matt’s jaw as he gritted his teeth. “My methods aren’t your concern.”

“They are when you drag my kid into it.”

Malcolm raised a hand. “I wasn’t dragged, in case that matters…”

“ _You’ve_ been stabbed,” Gil said, pointing first at Malcolm, then at Matt. “ _You’ve_ been shot. How long before it’s something fatal?”

“I mean, so far I’ve got a pretty good track record of not dying,” Malcolm pointed out.

But Matt slowly stood to his full height, aiming his glare in Gil’s direction. “Excuse us for prioritizing other people’s safety above our own. Maybe that’s hard for someone like you to understand, since you’re more interested in following procedure than in actually securing justice. But if you don’t like him working with me, you should’ve listened to him at the start of this case—then he wouldn’t have needed my help in the first place!”

Malcolm winced.

Matt clearly expected Gil to retaliate somehow, because he looked totally shocked when all Gil did was drag a hand across his face and say, “I know.”

Matt blinked, geared up for a fight that was apparently not happening.

“Look, Malcolm…” Gil turned to face him. “I’m sorry, kid. Truly. I should’ve listened when you said we got the wrong person. I shouldn’t have let the DA’s threats get in the way of our investigation, and I’d give anything to back in time and support you.”

Malcolm had no idea how to respond to that, and he wasn’t sure if he was more shocked by the sincerity of Gil’s apology, or the fact that Gil was apologizing in front of Matt. He just knew he couldn’t remember a single time Martin had _ever_ apologized to him and actually meant it, let alone in front of witnesses, and it was all too much for even Malcolm and all his training to sort out.

“But I don’t…” Gil gave a small shake of his head, as if to himself, and then said words Malcolm couldn’t remember him ever saying before: “I don’t know what to do here.”

Malcolm stood up too, a little off-balance—in more ways than one. “What?”

“I said I’ll take a leap of faith, and I will. That doesn’t mean I want you both throwing caution to the wind.”

“I may throw caution lots of places,” Malcolm admitted, “but never to the wind.”

Gil just looked at him.

“Never _entirely_ to the wind,” Malcolm amended.

“You two need to have backup,” Gil said flatly.

“What, the NYPD?” Matt scoffed, folding his arms across his chest.

“No. Me.”

Malcolm cocked his head, wondering if he should point out the obvious: that Gil _was_ NYPD.

Gil sighed. “I can’t help in my official capacity. And I can’t ask Dani or JT to risk their badges. But, Malcolm, if you insist on working with him, you need to at least let me know what you’re planning. Where, when, how, who. I need to be on standby in case something goes wrong.”

Wait, really?

“No,” Matt said coldly.

Gil’s expression was deadly. “No?”

Matt’s head twitched in Malcolm’s direction for a split second before all his attention seemed to focus on Gil. “Let me make this very clear. I respect that Malcolm appreciates you, but I can’t allow you to tail me. You might—”

“I already tailed you and you didn’t even notice,” Gil pointed out.

Okay. Apparently a fight was happening anyway.

Matt completely ignored Gil’s point. “You might know my name and my face, but that doesn’t mean you have any actual evidence as to my identity, and I’ll be keeping it that way. There’s no way to guarantee that any intel you gather in the interest of allegedly helping me won’t be used against me at some point. So no. You can back Malcolm up all you want, but not when he’s with me.”

“You think you get to decide that?”

Malcolm stepped closer to Matt. “C’mon, man. Gil’s not gonna turn you in.”

“Can I get that in writing?” Matt asked sardonically. “Along with a statement under oath that he has no idea who Daredevil is or of any illegal activity Matt Murdock has ever been involved with?”

 _How_ was he this articulate so soon after being drugged? Malcolm opened his mouth, but Gil beat him to it.

“What’ll it take to get you to trust me?” Gil asked.

Matt rolled his eyes. “Turn in your badge?”

“Matt, _c’mon_ ,” Malcolm hissed.

“Because if you can think of something reasonable,” Gil said evenly, “I’ll do it.”

Matt froze; his expression did something weird as his eyes flitted not around Gil’s face but around his chest.

Oh. Right. Heartbeats.

Gil shrugged, acting way more casual than he obviously felt. “Just let me know.”

“I…” Matt apparently didn’t have a clue how to actually end that sentence.

“Anyway.” Gil slipped his hands into his pockets and abruptly changed the subject. “Dani called while you two were out of it. Told me Jared confessed.”

_What?_

Matt’s eyes flew wide. “What?”

“What?” Malcolm echoed.

Gil nodded, a small smile flitting around the very corners of his mouth. “Said he didn’t want his sister to pay for his choices. Dani already let the DA know, but I’ll speak with her myself, make sure she gives this her full attention.”

Malcolm heard the words, but he wasn’t processing them yet, too focused on the fact that _they did it_. Angela Worthington would get her freedom back, get her _life_ back. They did it.

He let out a dazed laugh. “You’ve really been sitting on that this whole time?”

Gil raised an eyebrow. “Maybe I didn’t want to immediately reward your bad behavior.”

“Rude,” Malcolm retorted.

Matt, meanwhile, slowly lowered himself back down onto the couch, looking stunned.

“The prosecutor should get the confession sent over to your firm sometime today,” Gil went on. “If she doesn’t, well, I wouldn’t blame you for taking her to task. And if you needed someone to tell the judge what evidence we found, I’d be willing to do that.”

Matt’s head cocked, but apparently he still couldn’t pick up any sign of a lie. “Against your own DA?” he asked weakly, like he still couldn’t quite believe this was happening. “You work together. She’s the one who decides if any of your cases even go through. You get on her bad side, and she can make your life hell.”

“I know.” Gil started walking away into the kitchen. “But I think helping people like your client is more important, don’t you? Now, do either of you want breakfast?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to HallowRune who graciously let me use a variant of a line they left in the comments a few chapters ago: "Their plan was good except there are entire sections about back up and self preservation missing." It cracked me up.
> 
> I promise Gil and Matt will be friends, and I actually stayed up way too late last night daydreaming about what that'll look like, but I hope you can see why they both have some reservations to work through.
> 
> Finally, this fic is officially over 100k! I'm so excited! Thank you guys so much for every kudo, comment, and bookmark - they mean so much to me! <3


	30. Test

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having friends gives Matt an existential crisis. It's canon.
> 
> Anyway, warning for a brief mention of child abuse while Matt explains how he started vigilantism.

Matt

All through breakfast, Malcolm and Gil tried to keep up a conversation, but Matt couldn’t relax. He couldn’t believe he’d been so careless, couldn’t believe he’d let himself get so vulnerable. And he couldn’t get over the fact that, by putting himself in that position, he’d not only risked his own liberty, but Foggy and Karen’s as well. What if it hadn’t been Gil? What if it had been some other NYPD officer, one less loyal to Malcolm? Matt would be in handcuffs right now, and Foggy and Karen would be in separate interrogation rooms, trying desperately to distance themselves from Daredevil before they went down with him.

(At least, he hoped they’d try to distance themselves. He hoped they wouldn’t sacrifice themselves in a misguided attempt to help him or otherwise prove their loyalty. But he didn’t know for sure, and that made all of it even more terrifying.)

He reminded himself that everything was, in fact, actually fine. And yet he kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. None of this was making sense, and maybe it was the aftereffects of the drug in his system, but anxiety refused to stop buzzing through his guts. He left Malcolm’s place as soon as possible.

Both Malcolm and Gil offered to take him back across town. Matt turned them down and was apparently doing a terrible job at pretending everything was normal, because Malcolm asked what was wrong.

“Nothing,” Matt said quickly, and flashed a smile for good measure. Besides, it wasn’t necessarily even a lie. It wasn’t like he could point to any specific thing as being wrong.

Well, once he was alone in a cab, he realized that wasn’t quite true. He _could_ point to one specific thing; even if he wasn’t sure whether the source of his anxiety actually reflected any aspect of reality whatsoever.

Stick.

During training all those years ago, he’d made it abundantly clear what Matt could expect if he ever dared to let other people in, let them get close, let himself become _attached._ They would suffer, and he would die. And he couldn’t deny that his life presented more than a preponderance of the evidence in support of Stick’s prediction. Foggy and Karen had both suffered, and Matt had almost died more times than he could count. And what about Elektra? What about Father Lantom? What about Stick himself? They’d suffered _and_ died.

And so now Matt had to ask himself: who exactly did he think he was, pretending none of this was going to backfire?

It _had_ to. Everything going right could only be a fluke. Sure, working with Malcolm resulted in a solved case. Sure, Dani and Gil hadn’t actually arrested him. But it couldn’t last. It just couldn’t.

The cab finally dropped Matt off at his apartment. It was a relief to escape behind a locked door. A relief to be alone. At some point, he’d have to figure out how to pull back. Malcolm would be hurt. Dani and Gil might be suspicious. But it had to happen. They’d solved the case, and now this chapter in Matt’s life needed to close.

Even without an actual plan of how to get distance from the profiler and his team, the decision by itself made Matt feel better. Lessened anxiety’s buzz. Allowed him to take deep breaths as he tried to keep preemptive regret from creeping in to steal anxiety’s place.

~

The next day, Matt was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. He arrived at work to find that the DA had already sent over Jared’s confession. Great. Matt deftly dodged Foggy and Karen’s questions about how that happened—at least, he thought he was deft, although they both seemed suspicious so perhaps not—and retreated into his office to try to focus on work.

He couldn’t concentrate. Not on work, anyway.

One thing was clear: he’d need to be explicit with Malcolm. He had zero confidence that the profiler would permit Matt to just fade into the background. But Matt didn’t really want to craft any specific sentences. It would be easy enough to send Malcolm a text—he’d gotten a new phone after his last one was stolen by the Dogs of Hell—and maybe a text would be more painless for both of them. But Matt kept putting it off.

He was such a coward. And the lack of closure was not helping his anxiety.

The other shoe still had to drop.

“Buddy?”

Matt jumped, tugging his earbuds out of his ears to notice Foggy leaning in the doorway to his office. “What?”

“Just, uh, you okay?” Foggy was fidgeting with…oh, Matt didn’t even know. One of the many knickknacks Foggy had collected over the years. He was moving it too quickly for Matt to get a clear read on it.

“Yeah. Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You seem tense.”

Matt rubbed at the bridge of his nose under his glasses. So much for his everything-is-perfectly-normal routine. “Do I?”

“This have anything to do with Jared randomly getting arrested and confessing to literally everything?”

So much for deftly dodging Foggy and Karen’s questions. Mat wet his lips. At some point, he’d have to tell Foggy that two members of the NYPD knew his identity, not counting Malcolm. But he wasn’t sure he was emotionally ready for that argument right now.

And so Matt said the only thing he could think of that might actually distract Foggy from interrogating him as he twisted his earbuds nervously between his fingers. “Honestly, I’m worried about whether I made a mistake. With Malcolm.”

Foggy apparently took that as permission to come all the way into Matt’s office. “Why? Did something happen?”

“Not really. But…it has to happen at some point, doesn’t it?”

Foggy’s frown was clear in his voice. “What does?”

Matt swallowed. “You know better than anyone. I…I don’t know how to _do_ , you know…” He spun his hand nervously through the air. “Friendship.”

“Uh, have you forgotten that you’re my best friend?”

“Not because of _me_ ,” Matt corrected quietly. “Because of you.”

“That makes zero sense. You know that makes zero sense, right?”

Matt sighed. “Forget it.”

But Foggy plunked himself down in the chair opposite Matt’s desk. “No, man, let me have this one, because normally you’re the one being all logical, and it’s kinda nice to be the one proving you wrong for once, even if the context is less than cheerful.”

Matt sighed again, loudly and pointedly.

Foggy, of course, ignored him. “If it were all on me, I’d be best friends with everyone, since I’d be the only part of the equation that’s dispositive in best friendshipness. But, newsflash, I’m _not_ best friends with everyone. In fact, I’m best friends with one person: you.”

“Not Karen?”

“And Karen, I guess, but that’s different. She’s in a different best friend category.”

“You have multiple best friend categories?” Matt asked confusedly.

“I have _two_ best friend categories, and you are the only person in one best friend category, which means me being generally awesome—which I’ll concede is true—can’t be dispositive. Ergo—”

“Foggy.”

“— _you_ must also be awesome.”

Matt just kept twisting his earbud cord around his finger.

“Not getting through to you? Do I need to give an actual closing argument on this?”

“No, it’s just…” Matt rubbed the back of his neck. “I let people in, and they get hurt. Do you have an argument against that?”

He couldn’t. Not when he himself was Exhibit Number One.

“Um…”

Matt waited, but he rose his eyebrows higher with each passing second.

“Okay,” Foggy muttered, “okay. _But_ , consider this: people getting hurt isn’t _your fault_. It’s because you’re friends with people who run headfirst into danger. Sounds like Malcolm gets into enough trouble on his own, right? You don’t really get to take credit for all of it, do you?”

“Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try to mitigate the damage.”

“By doing what?”

Matt chewed on the inside of his lip.

“Giving him back your half of the friendship necklace?”

Matt glared. “I can’t be the reason he gets hurt.”

“Cool, so you’ll just stab him through the heart instead. Makes total sense.”

“Excuse me?”

“Look.” Foggy scooted to the edge of the chair. “I don’t read heartbeats, and I’m not a profiler. But that doesn’t mean I’m blind to all the ways you guys are scarily similar, which leads me to believe that Malcolm doesn’t exactly have an abundance of friends to fall back on when you brutally shove him away. Plus, whatever friends he might happen to have can’t possibly compare to me, but it’ll be awkward for me to still be friends with him after you make him feel like shit, so—”

“Wait, what, Foggy, stop.” Matt was normally pretty good at keeping up with Foggy’s rambling arguments, but this one was beyond him on multiple levels. “I’m not going to make him feel like shit.”

“What else do you think’ll happen when you give him back your half of the friendship necklace?”

Matt ignored that. “And, what, you want to be his friend?”

“Um, _yeah_. Dude’s cool.”

Matt blinked. Foggy said it so simply, like taking on another friend wasn’t an enormous gamble.

“Listen, Matt…” Foggy’s voice softened. “You don’t have a great track record with friends. I get that. But that’s not your fault.”

“That’s not what you said when we broke up the firm.”

Foggy let out a long exhale. “Yeah. Okay. I’m sorry for not owning my part in all that. I should’ve tried to understand more of what you were going through back then. Not that you shouldn’t have been more honest with me, too. But the point is, that was only _partly_ your fault. And, even more importantly, you’re not that guy anymore. So why not, y’know…believe in yourself, just a little?”

Foggy was starting to make too much sense. “It’s not that simple.”

“Doesn’t have to be simple. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t keep trying.”

Matt didn’t have an answer to that.

“Just…think about it, okay? Take a leap of faith.” Foggy stood up. “And, hey,for what it’s worth?”

Matt tilted his head up.

“I’m glad you’re my best friend. And I’m more than willing to share if that means more people get to have you in their lives.”

Everything from his voice to his heartbeat drove home Foggy’s sincerity, to the extent that it actually felt disrespectful to not believe him.

~

Why was choosing to let someone else in his life more terrifying than going after a mob boss? Or literal ninjas?

Matt paced his living room, replaying his conversation with Foggy in his mind. Foggy had made plenty of good arguments, but the point Matt couldn’t shake was Foggy’s genuine belief that any attempt to push Malcolm back would hurt Malcolm. Not physically, no, but emotionally.

To be fair, it wasn’t exactly a groundbreaking idea. Matt recognized that. But that only made it more embarrassing to admit that it wasn’t an idea Matt remembered ever giving much weight to before.

(Didn’t that mean Matt was a terrible friend?)

(Why, then, would Foggy insist otherwise?)

Finally, Matt stopped by the tall windows, head tilted, seeking distraction. A car had been waiting across the street for about thirty minutes now, and it was starting to make Matt tense. He told himself not to be paranoid. (Then again, it wasn’t like people attacking his apartment was entirely unprecedented.)

Forty-five minutes later, the car was still there.

By the time an hour had passed, Matt had to know what was going on with this vehicle. Slipping on a hoodie and his sunglasses, he grabbed his cane and headed outside.

The car was nice. New. And there was only one person inside, staying very quiet, almost as if they were on a stakeout—

Ah.

Matt stifled a sigh. Once there was a break in traffic, he crossed the street and tapped on the front door’s window. After a beat, the window rolled down.

“What are you doing here?” Matt asked sharply.

There was no way Gil could miss Matt’s tone, but his response was utterly benign. “I was hoping to talk to you.”

Matt narrowed his eyes behind his glasses. “You know where I live?”

Gil was unapologetic. “I tailed you, remember?”

Why exactly was Malcolm so fond of this guy?

“Come for a ride with me?” Gil asked.

Matt raised his eyebrows. “You’re kidding me.”

“Not at all.”

“And how do I know this won’t end in handcuffs?”

Gil snorted. “Like you couldn’t take me.”

Matt frowned, only then noticing that Gil had left his gun behind. Nor had he brought a taser, or even a baton. He was, in fact, entirely unarmed. “Where would we go?” Matt asked. “Hypothetically. If I agreed.”

“There’s a nice spot over at forty-fifth and second.”

Leaning on his cane, Matt reviewed his mental map of the city. “Isn’t that…a park?”

“You just know that off the top of your head?” Gil sounded impressed.

“Memorizing the city is important when you can’t read street signs,” Matt explained dryly.

“Fair enough. So are you coming?”

Foggy would say he should. Matt figured he…might as well test this. Gil’s surprise was obvious when he nodded and folded up his cane and circled around the car to slide into the passenger’s seat.

The drive to the park was nothing but small talk, which was made incredibly awkward by the fact that neither of them could speak freely about their jobs given that their jobs were technically adversarial.

“You got family?” Gil asked eventually.

Matt considered mentioning Maggie, but decided against it. That was too complicated. “No, not anymore. You?”

“No,” Gil answered. “Not anymore.”

Matt tried not to feel _bonded_ or something.

They finally arrived at the park. It was beautiful, at least as it showed up in Matt’s sense. Wide and open and relatively quiet, with wind rustling the leaves of the trees, birds overhead, and a small pond rippling as ducks paddled around.

“I used to take Malcolm here, when he was a kid,” Gil remarked, heading towards a bench.

Matt had nothing to say to that.

They settled on the bench, leaving about a foot between them. Gil leaned against the back while Matt sat on the edge, unable to get quite comfortable with his bullet wound.

Gil cleared his throat. “So I have some obvious questions.”

“And you think I’ll answer them because…?”

“I could just ask Malcolm,” Gil pointed out.

He didn’t sound like he was about to make good on the threat, though. He sounded like this was a fishing expedition.

“Malcolm would tell you to ask me,” Matt countered, putting all the confidence he could in his answer. He didn’t _know_ , of course. Maybe, now that Gil knew Matt’s most important secret, Malcolm wouldn’t bother keeping the rest of Matt’s secrets. Maybe Malcolm wouldn’t even realize details about Matt’s senses or Stick _were_ secrets. (No, Matt knew better. More importantly, Malcolm knew him—well enough to know that anything Matt didn’t publicly advertise was, in essence, a secret.)

“You’re probably right,” Gil said. “He’s always been loyal. Even to the wrong people.”

“His father?”

“Does that really not bother you?” Gil asked doubtfully.

“Why would it? Malcolm’s not his father.”

“He’s not exactly normal, either.”

Matt sighed. “Look, I was awake while you and Malcolm were talking. I know what you’re worried about, but I promise: I’m not exactly the saint Malcolm makes me out to be, but I’m doing my best to make this city a better place. I’m not the bad guy.”

“How did that start, by the way?” Gil asked. “Your whole…above-the-law thing.”

“I’m not above the law,” Matt said quickly.

“Then why aren’t you in jail?”

“The police are bad at their jobs.”

Gil laughed briefly. “No, seriously. People don’t just wake up and decide to beat criminals into comas. What happened?”

Matt shouldn’t have to answer these questions. At the same time, he couldn’t fault Gil for wanting to make sure he wasn’t a psychopath. In fact, a small part of Matt was relieved that Gil was willing to ask these highly invasive questions to a man he knew to be violent, if that was what it took to make sure Malcolm was safe.

It was something Jack would’ve done for Matt.

So Matt risked giving him a few facts. “I didn’t train myself. I was trained when I was a kid. For something completely different. But when I grew up, I figured…why let the training go to waste? Why let bad things keep happening if…if I can stop them?”

“What were you trained for?”

Matt wet his lips, debating how much to share, weighing the significance of every detail. “A war,” he said at last.

Gil’s heartbeat was the only part of him that betrayed surprise. “With?”

“Trust me. It’s very complicated.”

“Is it ongoing?”

Matt shrugged.

“Are people in danger?”

“Not here in New York. Not for now.”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

Matt shrugged again.

“You’re really not gonna give me more?”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No. I’m not.”

“I’m not gonna arrest you, you know.”

Another shrug.

Gil sighed. After that, they sat together in silence for a few minutes; Matt wasn’t sure how long. He was too busy tracking a bird through the air, wishing he had that kind of freedom.

Then Gil suddenly spoke. “Years ago, back when Malcolm was a kid. I got dispatched to a residence. Thought it was a prank. Had to check it out, though. I show up, and there’s Martin Whitly. Renowned doctor. He couldn’t figure out who made the 911 call. But he invited me in, offered me a cup of tea.”

Matt felt his eyes widen as a fleeting fact about the Surgeon came to mind. “Isn’t that how…?”

“The Surgeon tranq’d his victims? Yeah.” Gil sighed again, heavier this time. “All of a sudden, I look down and there’s this kid staring up at me. Tells me to take out my gun. Says his dad’s gonna kill me.”

“That’s how the Surgeon got arrested,” Matt breathed.

“Malcolm saved all of us that night. Me most of all.” Gil leaned back on the bench. “And now…look, Matt, he shouldn’t be on the team.”

“What?”

“He shouldn’t. I get dragged into meetings every other month on account of his psych record alone, never mind what he actually gets up to in the field. He shouldn’t be on the team. Or if we let him consult at all, we should stick him in a room someplace where he can’t cause problems. That,” he said, voice getting fractionally louder as he turned his head towards Matt, “would be procedure. Policy.”

Matt pressed his lips together.

“But he needs this. The job. All of it. And frankly, the city needs it too. Each time he stops a killer, it’s lives saved. Policy and procedure won’t get in the way of that. Not if I can help it. Not on my watch.”

Matt nodded once.

“So I get it. You may not wear a badge, you may take it a lot further than I ever do, but…I get it.”

Matt cast his senses further away, tracking a duck drifting along on the surface of the water. But even if he could ignore Gil’s sincerity, he couldn’t block out the memory of Foggy’s voice, so earnestly trying to get him to just…take a leap of faith.

Without really meaning to, he opened his mouth. “I didn’t plan it.”

“What?” Gil asked.

“Putting on the mask. Going out at night. I didn’t really plan it. But now that I’ve started, I can’t stop.” And with that, Matt fell silent, fiddling restlessly with the strap of his cane, afraid that he’d already said too much, that Gil could tell he was insane, that he was about to get arrested. Or worse.

But all Gil said was, “When did it start?”

Matt swallowed. “I’d just finished law school.”

Gil didn’t say anything, like he thought Matt would stop talking if he interrupted.

“There was a little girl.” Matt kept his voice carefully even. “She lived close enough to my place that I could hear her. At night, her dad would go into her room. I heard…” He swallowed hard. Shook his head. “I called the police. I did everything I was supposed to. But the dad never left any evidence, not even a mark. And the mom wouldn’t believe it. I realized then that no one was gonna help that little girl but me.”

“So you helped her.”

“Yeah.” Even now, after all this years, Matt couldn’t quite bury the satisfaction he felt at the memory. “I found him at night. He had to drink through a straw after I was done.”

“Good.” Gil said it immediately, zero hesitation, zero equivocation.

Maybe…this wasn’t such a bad idea?

Before Matt could figure out what else to say in this strange conversation, he was distracted by familiar footsteps not too far away. He cocked his head. “Does Malcolm come here often?”

“What?” Gil swiveled, glancing behind them. “Huh,” he said a second later. “You mind if he joins us?”

No. No, he really didn’t. Matt shook his head.

Gil raised his voice. “Hey! Bright! Get over here!”

Matt couldn’t see Malcolm’s face light up when he noticed it, but he was somehow convinced it happened anyway. The next thing he knew, Malcolm came bounding over, his expensive shoes flattening the grass.

“Aw, Gil,” he said, slowing to a stop by the bench, “you’ve gotta find your own park for Matt.”

Ah. This park was a place for him and Gil. In the same instant, Matt felt like an intruder and realized why Malcolm might come here, even by himself.

“But this one has the best view,” Gil retorted.

“By far the most important factor,” Matt said dryly.

Gil’s answering chuckle was far too pleased, like he was interpreting this entire conversation as an incontrovertible success.

Matt couldn’t bring himself to suggest otherwise, not even to himself. Even when Malcolm nudged Matt so he could join them on the bench, and Matt found himself awkwardly trapped between two NYPD employees. On a park bench. In broad daylight.

How was this his life?

Maybe there was no other shoe to drop.

At that moment, Gil’s phone started buzzing. Pulling it from his pocket, he glanced at it, and his heartrate sped up just a little. Matt cocked his head, curious.

Standing up, Gil took a few steps away. “I should take this. It’s, uh, Jessica,” he added awkwardly.

Jessica, Jessica…?

“Tell her I love her dearly,” Malcolm piped up.

Right. Malcolm’s mother.

Matt had no idea what kind of relationship Gil and Jessica had, although he suspected from Gil’s reaction to seeing her contact in his phone that there was a certain type of relationship Gil _wanted_ to have.

But the voice on the other end was not Jessica’s. “ _Hello, Lieutenant Arroyo_ ,” Jacob Luffman said.

“Who’s this?” Gil sounded worried, but mostly confused. He wouldn’t recognize the voice.

“That’s Jacob Luffman,” Matt hissed. “Put it on speaker.”

Gil’s hand tightened like a vice around the phone, but that was nothing compared to Malcolm’s reaction: he shot upright like he was about to take off running then and there.

“Where did you get this phone?” Gil asked, voice impressively normal given the way his body radiated tension. Matt could instantly see why he was such a respected lieutenant, able to keep himself under control despite a panic that was as loud as a siren to Matt’s senses.

“Is he with you?” Unlike Gil, Jacob’s voice vibrated with rage.

“Who?” Gil asked steadily.

“ _My son._ ”

“Tell me where you got this phone. Then we’ll talk.”

This was met with a sharp noise, followed by a feminine gasp.

“That answer your question?” Jacob growled.

Now Gil rose to his feet, much more slowly than Malcolm, but more menacingly. “If you’ve hurt her—”

There was another sharp noise, but Jessica’s yelp was already more distant, like Jacob had walked away. “Just enough to get her to listen to me. Now the question is, are _you_ listening?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought everything was sunshine and rainbows from here on out? PSYCH. That being said, I'm PRETTY sure this fic only has 4 more chapters to go, so things can't go too terribly wrong....
> 
> In other news, special note for you Malcolm/Matt shippers: this fic will stay gen, but check this out if you want romance: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29137995.


	31. Leap of Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have NO idea why this chapter is so long (well, I do...there was Setup...), I hope y'all don't mind?

Malcolm

Jacob had his mother. Jacob had his _mother_. How did this happen? When? _Why?_

Malcolm knew why. It was all his fault, and now his hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

He wanted to rip the phone from Gil’s hands. Demand answers. Scream, cruse, threaten. The only thing holding him back was the knowledge that this was not the first hostage situation Gil had handled.

_His mother was a hostage._

Dizziness swept over him, the rush of adrenaline surging through his body with no chance for release. He distantly felt Matt’s hand on his shoulder, but he couldn’t even bring himself to respond.

“I’m listening,” Gil said, after what felt like a year of tense silence.

“Where’s my son?” Luffman demanded.

“He’s not with me.” Gil’s voice was perfectly level. “He’s already been booked.”

Luffman swore loudly.

“The woman,” Gil said, “how did you find her?” 

Jacob’s answering laugh was harsh. “The bitch is a socialite. Didn’t exactly take much to track her down.”

“But why involve her at all? She has nothing to do with—”

“Her son. The profiler brat.”

Malcolm already knew it, he _knew_ it was his fault, but he still felt the trickle of cold spread through his body at the confirmation.

Gil must hate him now, but he didn’t show it. He kept all his attention on the call. “How did you know he’s her son?”

“Idiot left his phone. I figured mommy would be the best person to get his attention, but I haven’t ruled out the sister. What d’you think, Lieutenant? Who means the most to this asshole?”

Malcolm couldn’t breathe. The Dogs of Hell stole his phone, which meant he gave Jacob Luffman the two targets he needed—and told him exactly how to find them. Matt squeezed his shoulder like he was trying to be encouraging. It didn’t help.

Luffman’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Where is he?”

“Who?”

“Her son. Malcolm Bright. He with you?”

Malcolm already gave Luffman the number for his new phone, that terrifying night when he shot Matt. Why would Luffman not just call him? Why call Gil, with _Jessica’s_ phone?

“No,” Gil lied. “I don’t know where he is.”

“He said he consults for you.” Luffman sounded irritated, like the fact that Malcolm wasn’t with Gil was a personal insult to him.

“Not twenty-four seven. What do you want with him?”

“I want you to send him this picture. And tell him I said hello.”

With that, he hung up. A second later, Gil’s phone vibrated. His face whitened. He held out the phone so Malcolm could see.

It was a picture of Jessica, tied to one of the dining room chairs and gagged. A massive purple bruise was splashed across her face, and her hair was matted with blood.

The barrel of a gun was pressed to her lips.

Malcolm grabbed the phone. “Gil, Gil, we have to—”

“I know.”

“What is it?” Matt asked softly.

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut. Gil described the picture so Malcolm wouldn’t have to say it, but he wished he could plug his ears so he wouldn’t have to _hear_ it.

When Gil finished, Malcolm opened his eyes to see…a frankly scary look on Matt’s face. He couldn’t see Matt’s eyes, obviously, he was clenching his jaw so hard it looked like it hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he bit out.

Gil stiffened. “For what?”

Matt started pacing. “This is my fault. I should’ve prioritized Luffman, I should’ve dealt with him long before now. And I shouldn’t have let him get so close to Malcolm, I should’ve known he’d lash out like this, I was just—I was distracted, but it’s my fault, I’m—”

“I don’t blame you,” Malcolm whispered.

Matt stopped moving, head lowered. “Well, you should.”

Malcolm inhaled shakily. “It’s my fault. I’m a _profiler_ , what’s the point if I can’t even think five seconds ahead and realize Luffman would snap?” All he would’ve had to do was stop and think how the Surgeon would react if he suddenly lost access to Malcolm. What, had Malcolm been too afraid to keep acknowledging the similarities? Inexcusable. Letting his own insecurities get in the way of an accurate profile. Or had he just been chasing the thrill of solving a case, too intent on finding his own satisfaction without stopping to think how it might hurt anyone else? Just like the Surgeon. Well, not _just_ like, Malcolm didn’t get his satisfaction from _killing_ people, but it might come to the same thing if Luffman—

Malcolm jerked his thoughts away from that direction. And now his mother was paying the price for his choices, that was the point. He raked a hand through his hair. “She’s always telling me to stop chasing serial killers, but not because she was worried it might put _her_ in danger, she only ever worried about _me_ , and I didn’t even—”

“ _Hey!_ ” Gil suddenly clamped a hand on the backs of both their necks, shutting them up. “Not helping. You understand? _Not helping_. Feel guilty later, but right now I need you both to focus. Understand?”

Silence.

“I said, _understand?_ ”

Malcolm took a slightly less shaky breath. Matt now looked newly stunned on top of everything else, but Malcolm was more used to this kind of intervention. And Gil was right—there would always be time for getting overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of his mistakes _later_ ; no need to worry about that right now.

Right now, he had to be nothing more than a profiler. Not Jessica’s son. Not someone terrified of losing his mother because he himself was too messed up to—

Just a profiler.

Gil searched his eyes and seemed to understand that Malcolm was with him. For now, at least. He then tried and failed to meet Matt’s eyes, and settled for just saying, “Okay? Matt?”

And then…it was almost (definitely) creepy, the way all the emotion just slid off Matt’s face. He straightened up. “Yes,” he said, expressionless.

Malcolm blinked. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be capable of that kind of emotionless focus. He wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to be.

(Matt was _not_ a psychopath, he reminded himself. This was just good, old-fashioned repression. Not great, but not too murdery either. Usually.)

Gil shot a glance at Malcolm, but triage was a skill that came with being a lieutenant, and his concerns about whatever was going on with Matt were obviously not worth his time right now. “Okay.” He stepped back, letting his hands fall from Malcolm and Matt’s necks. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna bring the team in—”

Matt visibly winced.

“—and SWAT—”

“Let me try first,” Matt interrupted.

Gil’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“I can’t…” Matt’s fingers were twitching agitatedly at his side and he kept his head down, like he was subconsciously avoiding Gil’s eyes. (Or Malcolm’s.) “I can’t help if you’re bringing so many people in. I’m sorry, but I can’t. But I can find Luffman on my own, and I can get Jessica out—”

“How many hostages have you rescued?” Gil demanded incredulously.

Matt’s head tilted. “Over forty different incidents, over a hundred total hostages. As a conservative estimate.”

Gil blinked. Apparently he somehow hadn’t expected that. Then again, Malcolm figured most of his research into Daredevil was more about all the criminals he hurt, not all the people he rescued.

“Gil,” Malcolm said quietly. “If we have to pick…I think we should choose Matt over SWAT.”

Gil looked pained.

“He rescued me from the Dogs of Hell all on his own,” Malcolm added, choosing to specifically _not_ mention that Matt kinda got himself shot in the process.

“And then Dani and I had to turn around and rescue both of you,” Gil pointed out. “You both took completely unnecessary risks—”

“Because they were _our_ risks,” Matt cut in. “We may risk ourselves, but we won’t risk someone else.”

See, that made sense, didn’t it? “C’mon, Gil,” Malcolm whispered. “It’s my mother.”

Gil muttered something under his breath, pressed his fingers to his eyelids, and nodded once. “Okay. No SWAT. But I’m calling in Dani and JT.”

Matt visibly braced himself. “Okay.”

~

Malcolm drove Matt to his own place so he could get his mask, then took off back across town towards Jessica’s house. He was probably breaking about a hundred traffic laws. He didn’t care. Besides, he knew some good defense attorneys.

The ride was tense and silent. At least, it _was_ , up until Matt said: “I’m sorry.”

Malcolm gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Don’t.”

“I don’t—I don’t mean I’m sorry as in, my fault. I just mean…I’m sorry you’re going through this.”

He sounded so awkward and uncertain, it was almost distracting.

Almost.

Malcolm changed the subject. “Thank you for working with my team. I know that’s asking a lot.”

Matt didn’t say anything.

“If it helps, your identity will be the opposite of anyone’s priority. Dani already knows anyway, and JT won’t really care.”

Matt blanched. “Dani knows?”

Uh, had he not figured that out? Sure, Malcolm’s memory of the night Gil and Dani rescued them was still blurry, so he didn’t know for sure if Matt gave himself away then, but he _also_ knew it didn’t really matter. Dani got enough info on Matt when she brought him back to Malcolm’s place, and she was a good enough detective to reach the right conclusions. Malcolm was honestly a little offended on her behalf that Matt was so surprised. “Matt,” he said. “Be chill.”

“ _Chill?_ ”

Malcolm pressed harder on the gas. “Stress impairs cognitive functions. I need you focusing.”

Matt was frowning. “I know how to handle stress in combat. It sharpens my focus.”

“Even when the stress is totally unrelated to the combat itself? How does worrying about your identity help you focus on _rescuing my mother?_ ”

Matt just started twisting his mask in his hands.

(And, okay, a very small part of Malcolm’s mind _was_ worried that he was dragging Matt into a situation the vigilante would never be able to go back from. It could go wrong so many ways, and it wasn’t like Malcolm could guarantee none of this would fall back on him. But that was…so far down on his list of worries, and maybe he should feel bad about that, but he didn’t really have room for that many emotions at once right now.)

“I’m focused,” Matt said. His head turned towards Malcolm; he offered a small smile. “Your mother will be fine.”

“Definitely,” Malcolm replied.

He didn’t need to be a profiler to know neither of them were as sure as they were pretending.

~

Since Jessica’s small mansion of a home was fancy enough to be at the literal corner of Central Park, the team convened under the cover of thick trees just as the sun was slipping behind New York’s skyline. Malcolm, Gil, Dani, and JT. And Matt, who was creeping around somewhere but couldn’t just come out and say hi to everyone else like a normal person because. Obviously. Malcolm wished he would, but he understood why he didn’t yet. Everything was nerve-wracking enough already.

“Luffman called me again,” Gil murmured to Malcolm. “Asked if you’d seen the picture.”

Malcolm’s heartrate was going to kill him. He bounced nervously on his toes. “What’d you tell him?”

“That you haven’t been responding to me.”

“Good,” Malcolm said shortly. If Luffman was waiting for a reaction from Malcolm, he could keep waiting.

Gil turned to address the rest of the team. “All right, everyone.” He was using his in-control voice. Malcolm knew him well enough to hear the panic beneath, but somehow the in-control voice still managed to calm him down just a little. “Here’s the background. Perp is Jacob Luffman, member of the Dogs of Hell. He’s got numerous assaults on his record, plus breaking and entering, felon in possession, and, uh…and even a couple attempted murders. I’m sure he’s killed before, even if we were never able to prosecute. Point is: we will _all_ be treating him seriously. Understood?”

Malcolm bit his lip, fidgeting. Hearing Gil rattle off Luffman’s known crimes like that was—honestly, it was scary. Because, like, when it came down to it, serial killers were different than _thugs_. Serial killers—the successful ones, anyway—were smart. And they had their preferred styles. In other words, they were _predictable_.

This, though?

“We don’t know exactly what he wants yet, except that he…he sent me this picture to give to Bright.” He held up his phone. “He hasn’t made any demands, and he currently has access to the Whitly wealth, so it doesn’t seem like he’s interested in a ransom. Obviously, we’ll try to talk him down, but we need to prepared for the potential that the only way we’re getting Jessica out of there is by force.”

Dani glanced around. “And you want us to go after him with…just us?” She didn’t sound scared, but she did sound like she knew she was missing something.

Gil took a deep breath. “No. We’ll have a new member on our team for this one. A _temporary_ member,” he added.

And Matt chose this moment to come slinking dramatically out of the shadows, all in black, mask hiding his face.

JT’s eyebrows shot up. “Holy shit.”

“What, _him?_ ” Dani was staring rapidly between Matt and Gil. “You seriously think that’s a good idea?”

Malcolm couldn’t exactly blame her for being so shocked: she might’ve read reports on how effective Matt was, but the only times she’d _seen_ him were when he was shot and, well…high.

“Yes,” Gil said brusquely. “He’s familiar with the Dogs of Hell, and with Luffman, and he has experience with this kind of rescue operation.”

“And he’s less obnoxiously obtrusive than SWAT,” Malcolm piped up.

Dani just put her hands on her hips.

“We’ve gonna work together,” Gil said, eyes on Dani, “and we’re gonna trust each other. That’s the only way this is gonna work. Understood?”

She gave a jerky nod.

“Good.” Gil dug into his pocket. “Earpieces,” he said, handing them out. “They have a mic attached, but they won’t be able to pick up much of what’s around you, so if you see something the rest of us should know about, you have to say so.” He paused in front of Matt. “Got it? You have to communicate with the rest of us.”

Matt’s fingers curled around the earpiece. “If I see something, say something,” he summarized dryly, voice lowered to his Daredevil octave. “Got it.”

Gil shot Malcolm a look, like, _is this guy for real?_

Malcolm shrugged weakly.

“We’ve left Luffman alone too long,” Matt went on. He pointed at the team. “You come up with a plan, and let me know my role. I need to go make sure Luffman doesn’t get impatient.”

“Wait—” Gil started to say.

Too late; Matt had vanished back into the shadows.

Gil glared at Malcolm. Like it was _his_ fault.

But JT was looking thoughtfully in the direction where Matt had disappeared. “Can’t hurt to have eyes on the situation.”

Eyes. _Ha._

(Malcolm was maybe, possibly, on the edge of being a tiny bit hysterical. Prolonged stress could do that.)

“Okay, kid.” Gil dropped a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “What’s your read of this guy?”

Malcolm swallowed hard. He’d spent so much time trying to figure out how Luffman related to his son that he hadn’t stopped to think how Luffman would react if his son was suddenly out of his grasp. Building that profile _now_ , with his mother’s life hanging in the balance—he tried to push the thought out of his head.

John Watkins once said Malcolm shared the same weakness as his father: family. The Surgeon should’ve killed Malcolm when he had the chance, and then he wouldn’t be in a psychiatric hospital. And now Malcolm had to do better. Which meant pretending, as much as he could, that his own mother was just another hostage.

Malcolm wasn’t sure he could do it.

“Malcolm.” Dani’s voice was quiet, her eyes intense. “Focus.”

Malcolm gulped a quick breath. “Right. Yes. Of course. Okay. Um. Luffman is…experiencing loss. But to him, it’s not just loss. It’s…defeat, by our hands. And it’s also…rejection. His son is rejecting him and…everything he stands for.”

“Yes, and?”

“And…rejection often increases attention-seeking behavior. Grandiosity. Luffman wants a reaction. From his son, ideally, but…I think he’ll settle for us. For me, specifically. Hence targeting my mother, hence calling Gil to tell us what he’s doing. He wants an _audience._ ”

And with that, growing horror started clawing at Malcolm’s gut.

Gil’s eyes narrowed as he read Malcolm’s face. “Meaning what?”

One of the hardest parts of profiling someone was getting out of your own head. You had to evaluate the situation not from _your_ perspective but from _theirs_. And you had to do it without letting moral judgments get in the way. Accept the premises they’re working from, accept their value judgments as true, and use all of that to anticipate their choices.

Malcolm had always been good at that.

Starting with the other person’s desired outcome. There was no way Luffman would be getting his son back. Short of that, his desired outcome could only be revenge.

Then considering their perceived justifications. The loss of his son, in Luffman’s mind, would justify almost anything.

Next, evaluating their perceived alternatives. How else could Luffman expect to find a feeling of vindication? Malcolm couldn’t think of anything that would satisfy him.

Then considering their perceived consequences. What would be too terrible to risk? Malcolm would’ve said Luffman wouldn’t risk his own life, but that was before Luffman intentionally called an NYPD lieutenant to make his threads. So prison wouldn’t deter him. Not even _death_ would.

Or maybe he just didn’t think either was a real threat. Relating to the last point: knowing the other person’s perceived ability. Luffman was a hardened member of a vicious gang. Violence was his language.

Gil took a step closer. “Bright? What’s it mean, he wants an audience?”

Malcolm met his gaze. “It means there’ll be no talking him down. As soon as his audience is present, he’ll act.”

“Who’s his audience?”

Malcolm swallowed hard. “Me.” Which meant… “We can’t let him see me. He’s holding back now, he hasn’t just killed her, but if he sees me, there’s no reason for him to wait. I don’t have the power to drop the charges against Jared, so the only benefit he’ll get from seeing me is his reaction when—”

When he pulled the trigger.

“Okay,” Gil said calmly. “We’ll keep you out of sight.”

The thought of hiding out here, away from the action, of not being _there_ to make the split-second decisions if something went wrong…it was too big a risk. But he had to trust the profile. He had to trust _himself_.

Gil squeezed his shoulder. “But someone who could drop charges, he’d listen to them?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“I’ll go,” Gil said. I’ll talk to him.”

“Okay. But M—Daredevil has to go, too. He can disarm Luffman while you’re distracting him.” Malcolm resisted the temptation to glance around for Matt for confirmation. Of course Matt could disarm him, that was what he did.

Trust, trust, trust.

“How do we know Daredevil even agrees with the plan?” Dani asked testily, clearly displeased with the way Matt kept skulking around instead of acting like a team member.

“He’ll cooperate,” Malcolm said. “Trust me.”

Trust, trust, trust.

“Here.” Dani pressed something into his hand. Oh, binoculars. “Get in a place where you can see Luffman. You can walk the rest of us through what to do based on what you observe.” Her eyes searched his face, trying to reassure him without words.

He tried to _be_ reassured.

But only five minutes later, he was completely alone, crouching behind some bushes as he peered at the house through the binoculars. Gil and Dani were headed into the house, along—supposedly—with Matt (who was radio silent. Maybe because he was already in the house. Maybe because he’d decided this whole thing was a bad idea and ditched his mic in a dumpster somewhere). JT was stalking the perimeter, looking for any accomplices. Malcolm tried not to worry about any of that. He could see through a gap in the curtains into the dimly-lit dining room—not enough to see much, just enough to see Luffman—and he kept reminding himself that he didn’t need to see more. His job was to watch Luffman and interpret his every move. Gil and Matt and the others could handle the rest. He had to believe that.

He could only see his mother from behind, her hands bound behind the chair, her auburn hair messy and tangled. Luffman was pacing in front of her. Restless. Impatient.

And he was armed. He was tapping a gun against his thigh.

“He’s waiting,” Malcolm reported. “His agitation level seems baseline.”

No one responded. Because they were focused on being stealthy, he hoped.

Gil’s voice suddenly buzzed through his earpiece. “I’m in the house.”

Malcolm scrutinized Luffman. No change in the man’s demeanor. He hadn’t noticed the intrusion. “Stay quiet,” Malcolm murmured. “Stay subtle. Don’t startle him.”

“Understood.”

Still, Malcolm could see the exact moment when Luffman noticed Gil. The man froze, but one hand shot out to grab Jessica’s shoulder.

She flinched.

Luffman’s mouth moved, but Malcolm had no idea what he was saying.

“Move closer,” Malcolm whispered. “The earpiece can’t pick him up.”

He couldn’t see Gil; he just heard him speaking in a low, even voice. “Good evening, Mr. Luffman. I’m Lieutenant Gil Arroyo with the NYPD. We spoke on the phone. I’m here alone.”

Luffman’s mouth moved again. The rest of him did not.

“Get closer,” Malcolm urged. “He won’t shoot her in front of you, not unless he has to.”

“I still haven’t heard from Malcolm Bright,” Gil was saying, apparently in answer to Luffman. “He’s an odd guy, not very reliable. I have no idea when he’ll get back to me. But there’s no need to make Ms. Whitly suffer while we wait.”

Gil must’ve been moving closer, because now Malcolm could just barely hear Luffman’s raised voice through his earpiece. “She’ll sit here and wait, just like I’ve been sitting and waiting to know if I’ll ever see my son again!”

“About your son,” Gil began. “I can talk to the prosecutor, see if we can lower or drop his charges. But you’ve gotta give me a reason to.”

Luffman tightened his grip on Jessica’s shoulder. “Don’t come any closer!”

Malcolm still couldn’t see Gil, had no idea how close Gil had gotten.

“Your son, Mr. Luffman,” Gil repeated.

“I wanna talk to him.”

“I can make that happen.”

“I wanna talk to him _n_ _ow_.”

“I can’t make that happen right now. I’d have to call the prison, jump through bureaucratic hoops. You know how it goes—”

Luffman shook his head. “You can’t even let me call him?”

“Not right now,” Gil repeated calmly, “but—”

“Then what makes me think you’ll even be able to get my son out?”

Malcolm heard Gil take a deep breath. “The prosecutors often listen to my opinion when deciding charges. I can speak up for your son. He has some facts in his favor, like the fact that he turned himself in voluntarily—”

Oh, no, no. All of this was motivated by Luffman’s sense of rejection—Gil was making it worse, telling Luffman to his face that his son chose life in prison over life with his father.

And sure enough, Luffman started visibly breathing more heavily, shoulders jerkily rising and falling.

Gil cut himself off too late.

“Stay right there,” Luffman growled. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

And with that, he took his hand off Jessica’s shoulder and took a step away from her.

Fresh horror shot through Malcolm. Backing up might look like a retreat, like he was backing down. But Malcolm knew better. He couldn’t do more to threaten Gil with Jessica’s life, he was already aiming the gun at her, so stepping back was the only way he could escalate.

A gun was not an intimate weapon. There was no need to be close to the victim to use it. He was stepping back because—

“He’s about to fire,” Malcolm burst out.

And Matt exploded from out of nowhere. He appeared behind Luffman, swatting his arm downwards and to the side, so that when Luffman reflexively pulled the trigger, the bullet lodged in the floor. A flick of Matt’s wrist, and the gun went skidding across the room. A kick to the back of Luffman’s knees, and the man dropped to the ground.

Gil stepped into view, planting himself in front of Jessica, aiming his own weapon at Luffman. “Hands where I can see them!”

Luffman’s vehement cursing was loud over the earpieces, almost drowning out the ringing sound from the gunshot.

Dani materialized from where she must’ve been sneaking along the side hallway, stepping smoothly between Matt and Luffman with her handcuffs, securing Luffman’s wrists while Gil listed his rights.

Only then did Malcolm realize he was trembling. He should get up, go over there, but he couldn’t risk taking his eyes off the scene. It shouldn’t be this easy, something had to still go wrong….

But Dani was leading Luffman away, with Matt following like a shadow. Gil undid Jessica’s bonds, and then…whoa. Kissed her.

Malcolm gaped at the scene. When…when did that happen, exactly?

(He was a _terrible_ profiler.)

“Where’s Malcolm?” Jessica whispered.

“He’s watching everything,” Gil assured her, gently pulling her upright. “Malcolm? Have a message for your mother?”

Malcolm took a second to make sure his voice wouldn’t shake before saying, “Tell her I love her, and I’ll see her soon.”

Gil passed on the message. At the same time, Dani must’ve found JT, because Malcolm also heard JT’s voice through his earpiece, reporting that he hadn’t found any accomplices anywhere near the house. Malcolm wasn’t really surprised. This was too personal for Luffman, and besides, he wasn’t sure any Dogs of Hell would care at all about Jared.

Malcolm finally lowered the binoculars from his eyes, in time to see Dani and JT leading Luffman to the unmarked car parked across the street. They shoved him inside, and then JT turned around. “Hey, Daredevil, thanks for…” He trailed off uncertainly.

Matt was gone.

JT sighed loudly. “Well, as long as he gives us the mic and earpiece back.”

Dani sounded slightly amused. “I’m sure he will.”

“If he doesn’t, you can do the paperwork for it.”

“This whole mission is unofficial, remember?”

“There’ll still be paperwork,” JT said dejectedly. “There’s always paperwork.” He paused. “Hey. You think he’ll work with us again?”

Dani stuffed her hands into her pockets. “It’s not exactly following procedure.”

“It’s not exactly ineffective either,” JT pointed out.

Dani glanced towards the park, towards where Malcolm was hiding. “Yeah.”

At that moment, Malcolm sensed rather than saw or heard a presence behind him. He jumped and twisted around, just to see Matt crouched behind him, pressing a finger over his lips and holding his own tech in his other palm. Malcolm understood immediately, and quickly switched off Matt’s equipment and his own.

“Thanks,” Matt said in his normal voice. “You know, you realized he was going to shoot even before I did.”

Malcolm blinked. “You didn’t hear his breathing change or whatever?”

Matt shrugged. “I knew he was about to do something, I just didn’t know what. What I’m saying is…good job. Couldn’t have been easy watching from a distance.”

“It was the best way to maximize all our respective skills while minimizing the likelihood of my presence triggering a violent reaction from Luffman, so it was the only strategy that—” He cut himself off as Matt tilted his head to the side.

“Nervous chattering?” Matt asked, a hint of sympathy creeping into his tone.

“Maybe a little,” Malcolm admitted.

“Go see your mother. Both Jared and Jacob are in custody. Our job’s done.” He hesitated. “But…I’ll still see you around? Won’t I?”

What, did he seriously think Malcolm wouldn’t want to keep hanging out with him now that they’d captured the bad guys? That was…sad, and predictable, and completely untrue. “Well,” Malcolm said, smiling slowly, “you won’t _see_ me, but…”

Matt snorted. “Hilarious. Go see your mother.”

“Will do.” Malcolm finally stood up too, stretching from being crouched for so long with so much tension in his body. “And, hey, Matt?”

Matt had already taken a few steps away, but he stopped, head tilting in the other direction.

“Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Contrary to the lies I tell myself, self-isolation does NOT mean I don't have online classes, so between those and my other fics I can't promise how often I'll update but...hello, Prodigal Son fandom, it's great to meet you!
> 
> Edit: online classes are DONE so brace yourselves for lots of fic!
> 
> Edit: school is back along with a super awesome internship so please bear with me if it's a bit longer between chapters <3


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